Left Beyond - The Millennium Countdown
by geistklempner
Summary: Snippets of life in the Millennial Kingdom, centuries and continents apart. Post Cendrillon, mostly post Mercy, pre (chapters 1-5) and during (chapters 6-10) the Omega chronicle. (For the full Omega chronicle see chapter 6)
1. Maurice - Partial success

_In the Millennial Kingdom, if you are not saved, you die at 100 - at the end of your youth. Maurice has made peace with it and is ready to face it. His Christian friend Sam, formerly of the Young Tribulation Force, wants to talk him out of challenging Death head-on._

"Come on, Fox. We've had this conversation a hundred times."

"Two hundred and fifty five, not counting this one. I have been. Counting, that is."

Maurice smiled. "Can we call it 8-bit overflow then?" He laughed at his own joke. Sam joined in, hesitantly, then caught the reference and brightened up considerably.

"You mean, start from scratch?"

"We'll have to one way or another, Sam."

Maurice leaned to the side of the hospital bed a little, offered a hand to shake. Sam took it. It didn't happen often that members of The Other Light would call him by name; usually it was "Fox". Sam Goldberg felt an uncomfortable pang at the back of his head as he looked at the issue from a TOL perspective; in their eyes it made sense that he, a missionary and former Young Tribulation Force member, would be a fox in their henhouse.

And yet, they had accepted him, in a way. "Fox" wasn't derogatory, it was a job description. Following the example of Abdullah Smith years ago, Sam had camped in front of this particular cell of The Other Light and offered his services as a chaplain, willing to just set up office outside the warehouse door if they didn't let him. Like with his mentor Abdullah, Sam was allowed in and given a small desk to work from. And that's where the similarities ended.

This cell of The Other Light operated in the open, advertising itself as a sort of manufacturing co-op that offered classes in the trades, or, as they called it, a makerspace. Sam had to admit that there was something in the concept; what was probably a shipping warehouse in a bygone era had been refurbished, cleaned up (and subsequently graffitied pretty much all over), furnished with recovered or homemade machine tools, and turned into something that was half business, half social circle.

Sam had duly documented the process even as he helped enact it - he saw no reason to shy from honest work - and the cell's answer when he said that he'd like to share their designs with the local COT chapter, so that they might do something similar, was surprisingly enthusiastic. "All right! Friendly rivalry!"

That had come with a promise of no raids, which was kept except for the one time when the cell threw a wild party after the first "grudge match" involving RC tanks with power tools strapped to them as weapons - battlebots, they called them, although they were far too small to hurt anything other than another contraption - went how it went. It took Sam two weeks to prove to the TOL "tribe" that the raid had been called by someone hearing the prodigious amount of noise, and not himself.

Sam's efforts and willingness to work while he talked had won a handful of people over to Christ over the length of his stay (most of them had even switched over to the smaller COT makerspace, which had made the robot fights a little more interesting), but he couldn't help seeing Maurice's predicament as his own failure. Here he was, the closest thing to a nonbelieving friend that Sam had ever had after the Triumphant Return, in a hospital bed, a bristling series of tubes coming in and out of him. In less than a week, if he did not repent, Maurice would die, his allotted time in the Millennial Kingdom coming to an end.

"Is... is there any point in talking you out of this? Or is your mind made up?"

"The Tree of Life project, or not kissing TurboJesus' ring?"

"... Both, Maurice. Being as both are a deadly danger."

"Yes. I promised you a fair shake doing it, and you're getting it. That's why everyone else left us alone."

"Why are you risking eternal damnation for this? Even if it works, and it won't... then what? You'll be locked up in a box until the world falls away, and then you'll face the same fate."

"See, that's exactly it. I'm facing the same eternal fate anyway, why not do some science to go with it? It'll help accident victims, too."

"But you don't have to go to Hell! That's my whole point!"

Careful to not disconnect any of the tubes or wires, Maurice sat up in the bed. He was almost completely naked, with the bedsheets covering his modesty, save for his glasses and the black band around his arm. On it, the mechanism of digital watch, embedded in a hand-crafted pentagonal plate, counted down the seconds. It looked like a time bomb to Sam, and in a sense, it was.

"You remember the state the warehouse was in when we started?"

Sam nodded. He had knocked on the TOL cell's door very early on, assuming that they would turn it into a disco or even a drug den. It had been a lot of work making it into one of the few thriving nonbelieving businesses in the city; after much prayer on the matter, Sam had made peace with the situation by figuring that his own efforts had helped make the place work, lest it be replaced with something worse; he sure didn't want to be responsible for their amassing a higher class of dissidents, but it had worked out.

"I do, but what's your point? You wouldn't have to give up the makerspace, everyone back home said that. I mean, your guys let -me- stay."

"Yeah, yeah. You're welcome even if you eighty-six and all that. We both know it doesn't happen. Heh, if I went over to COT, maybe they'd have half a chance next time we do an antweight rumble." The two laughed a little, but it was forced.

On a terminal screen for the blood pump, a number went up. On Maurice's armband, the number kept going down.

"Seriously though. That place was a mess. Now it's a fixture of the community. We did the whole thing on practically no budget."

"And we should be proud of it, I get it. What do you think the Lord is going to say about it, though? Do you think it makes a difference in eternity? We talked about it..."

Maurice grinned. "If Yahweh has got any sense, He'll say, stay away from my Hell lest you renovate the Hell out of it."

"That's not how it works. Come on, it's not time for bravado. You still have a few days-"

"Who says that's not how it works? Not like I won't have much better to do for eternity. Besides, I have a lot longer. This will work. You'll see."

The machine pinged. Maurice's blood had been replaced. The trade had been complicated, involving a massive TOL blood drive, just to be able to trade O-negative blood and platelets for believers' AB+ at weight parity; the entire TOL cell in whose clinic Maurice and Sam were currently in had to shift gears massively to make it happen. Maurice, having the right blood type and being in good health, simply happened to be a good candidate. A blood flush before the procedure was the one of the new steps that would be attempted.

"It's never worked before."

"Tree of Life added redundancies. If it doesn't work with me, it will next time, or the next after that."

"No, that's my point, it won't! You can replace arms, legs, blood, even the heart... but it's still your soul that counts! It's like... it doesn't matter how hard you train, you'll never be able to fly."

The machine blinked a command prompt to ask for permission to insert anesthetic. Slowly, Maurice flopped a hand on the keyboard to type his consent.

"That's okay. We just need to jump good."

Sam fought back a tear and held Maurice's other hand. "I won't stop you. But... don't take it the wrong way, please, please... I will pray for you. If you wake up before the procedure is complete..."

Maurice nodded. That would be a nightmare, waking up halfway through. Maurice knew that nobody at TOL would think less of him if he gave up at that point. "Thank you. I mean it; I know you do."

He typed yes, and hit enter. A moment later, Sam found himself catching Maurice as he slumped, and carefully laid him down on the bed. Maurice had made his choice, and Sam had to respect it. As he walked out of the makeshift hospital room to the man and woman - boy and girl, really, most of this medical technology had been developed by teenagers, strictly speaking - who would escort him out of the underground clinic, Sam found himself almost praying for his heart to be hardened.

A week later, the entirety of the makerspace tribe, and a few select customers, were huddled around a computer screen, the teleconference link glitching and stuttering a little despite the work put into optimizing it. Sam was not there; depending on how the procedure had gone, he'd be told later, or not.

Shaya, the new foreman in the makerspace, turned on the microphone. "How'd it go, Raymond?" In the video feed, what was left of Maurice stirred, a pair of eyes blinked. The Tree of Life haunt was essentially a small hospital, and it showed; part of the makerspace's profits had gone towards paying for its operation.

The low-resolution video showed beeping and whirring; the other foreman answered like a voiceover, from another room. It was more somber than the occasion would suggest. "Partial success. The cybernetic interfaces are holding stable, but they're of no use without a cybersuit to interface with. I suggest we manufacture one immediately. When our new MEC Trooper equips that suit, I think you'll be pleasantly surprised with its capabilities."

A few in attendance cheered; one or two cried. Maurice was alive, in a way, but their friend would not return: too dependent on technology, at least for the foreseeable future.

The same day, without giving away details, Sam was told that Maurice would not be seen again. Shaya put greasy hands on Sam's slumped shoulders. "I'm sorry. They tried. You were his closest friend, we've often wondered if you guys were dating, even." Sam recoiled for a moment, pushing away a shadow of an evil thought.

"I agaped Maurice very much, we worked well together. I'm just as sorry as you are."

Shaya thought about telling Sam the full truth for a moment, he didn't deserve to live with the anguish of thinking a friend was in Hell, but the security risk was too great. Maybe what made Maurice Maurice is in hell, she thought, and we just got some of the meat working. She did know that they had to isolate his brain's dorsal posterior insula, just to stop the pain. She let herself shed a tear, and when she did, Sam knew it was okay to cry.

"That's why we want you to speak at his goodbye toast tomorrow."

A brief eulogy for the decommissioned or the dead, and if possible, sharing in the departed's favorite food or drink. A TOL tradition since Year 93, Sam knew.

"I will have to... think about it."

After a tearful prayer session, Sam called his mentor, and asked for advice.

"The makerspace cell want me to speak at his funeral, Abdullah" Sam said. "They know the truth, and yet still that's what they want. Whatever would I say? Maurice was a good guy, and had his death been the result of an accident back in previous years, I'd have been able to rhapsodize about him. He was a dear friend, a valued coworker."

"And an unbeliever," Abdullah said. "How did the conversation go with his friends? What are they suggesting you say?"

"They didn't make suggestions" Sam said. "But a funeral is no place for me to tell the awful truth. Maurice is in hell, no longer with us because he never trusted Christ for salvation. Is that what I tell people? And would his friends forgive me? Perhaps they're in denial, desperate to find some loophole, some reason why a nonbeliever might live past one hundred."

Sam was pretty sure that was the case; they'd practically built a hospital around trying to find one.

Abdullah's voice was stern now. "If they don't permit you to be honest, there's no point in doing anything but declining their request. The only benefit I see coming from this is if they allow you to warn them of the consequences of putting off the transaction with Jesus. I could go with you to see them and—"

"Don't. Please. You'd make things wor-"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

Before his turn to speak at the small gathering, Sam silently prayed for serenity, and by the time he had to say something, the Lord had granted him a feeling of calm detachment. There were about three dozen people there, most of the makerspace's tribe, some regular customers, and a few friends of Maurice's besides. All were under 100 years old. Nolan, the machinist, introduced Sam as "And we're going to close the goodbye toast with the fox in our henhouse, because that's fair, and because he was a friend of Maurice, too."

Abdullah had barged into the warehouse at the beginning of the simple ceremony, and had stood in a corner the whole time after all but demanding that they ignore him, even then harrumphing loudly when somebody broke out a flask of liquor or when naughty stories involving Maurice were shared. Sam would've sunk in his seat if he could have.

After he got back to the makerspace cell with the news of Mr. Smith coming, they had quickly realized that physically kicking the older man out would've invited a reprisal, a raid or worse. Sam stood up.

"All that was good and brilliant about Maurice has been said, and we remember him as a friend, a leader, a very talented designer. I cede my time to my mentor, who has graciously asked to say a few words." The older man marched to the big workbench that was serving as a memorial dinner table, waited a few moments for people to turn their chairs around to face him, and started talking in a stentoreous voice when they didn't.

"All our good works are as filthy rags before the Lord..."

As Abdullah went on, someone put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "It's not your fault, phi. We all wanted to talk to a grownup at some point yesterday."

Roaring, Abdullah continued. "...I have a challenge and a warning to everyone who has not yet reached the age of one hundred and who has not received Christ as Savior. The one common denominator throughout all ages, from the creation of Adam to the present kingdom, is that all have a choice to make..."

"... I guess you want me to leave after this, right?"

"Nope!" Dell answered Sam, craning his neck a bit and handing him a small bowl of peanuts.

Abdullah harrumphed again, and waited for silence before concluding. "...Should you leave here today without acknowledging Jesus, do not say you haven't been warned that you will not survive your hundredth birthday and that you will suffer needlessly for eternity."

Sam was expecting cold silence, maybe even violence - certainly not anyone coming forward to answer the altar call.

What he didn't expect was a solid minute of cheers and banging on the table.

Shaya stood up, shook Abdullah's hand with an exaggerated motion that made her breasts bounce all over the older man's field of view, and thanked him very much in a terrible Elvis accent. When Abdullah left in a huff, the peanut-throwing was light but accurate.

Sam stood there, confused, and only sat down after Shaya dropped a dollop of chili made to Maurice's specifications on his plate and gave him an extremely hearty squeeze.

"You don't have to leave, you know."

"I know."

"TurboJesus wants you elsewhere?"

"It's not that, I... I need to take a break. Be around... different people. It's probably just me, but I don't feel very welcome." Sam looked shaky. The place still felt emptier without Maurice, but after a few days everyone had mostly gotten back to what passed for work; fixing stuff, teaching other people to fix stuff, making things to sell, playing Quake on the CRT monitors when they felt like working.

Maurice's name had not been added to the small memorial plate behind the bar yet. Sam found it odd that everyone had gone out of their way to comfort him, as if he had felt the loss more than they had, as if he was the child and they the adult. He appreciated it for a while, but at some point, it began to simply feel uncomfortable.

"You're going back to COT then? Good, next faire is in two months, maybe you can teach them how to actually make an antweight. You need two wings to fly, you know. Don't obsess."

"Thanks, Shaya."

"Are your guys going to send someone else?"

"Probably. It's not my decision, we're a bit more centralized than that."

A few hugs and handshakes later, Sam left for the warm safety of his congregation. After his little altar call, the TOLers had been noticeably... not colder, he expected that, but very reserved, walking on eggshells; he could tell that the rapport was broken. He'd miss Maurice.

Sam had received his next assignment; make the COT makerspace more visible in the community compared to its competitor. He'd have to do quite a bit of work to get the COT group away from wedge designs for their battlebots. Losing three out of out of the last five rumbles to unbelievers was embarassing. "Lord, give me the courage to change what I can, the serenity to accept what I cannot..."

Elsewhere, hesitantly, with effort and the sound of an iron hoofbeat, Maurice moved his first step.


	2. Maiura - The spice must flow

_From the diary of Maiura DiDonna, missionary trainee_

Dear diary, today I reached the mission field. It's a little community near the ruins of Florence, Italy. There was a town called La Destinazione here, but the global earthquake destroyed most of the buildings. People have built their dwellings between the few buildings that are left - they tell me that some are more than a thousand years old! The fields around us are smaller than the ones I am used to, and look more like extended veggie gardens. People here take great pride in their produce

Dear diary, there are not very many people who are undecided here - most everyone who lives here are those who lived nearby two centuries ago before the Rapture, come back to tend their farms and orchards. Just not a lot of young people, although there are some. The elders have shown me some pictures of what it looked like before... There's still a hint of hills here, but the old pictures they've shown me are beautiful, rolling hills between the two Italian seas. The RV I came here with isn't very practical for the narrow roads, but thankfully, the local tractor-repair guy gave me a moped. He said I'd pay for it when I have the money, which was a little odd.

Dear diary, one of the farms here is run by unbelievers! They are struggling a little to trade with their neighbors, but they seem to be doing fairly well given the circumstances. I think I have found my true mission field. They are mostly growing peppers and garlic, although they are doing it in an odd way - about a third of their land is devoted to intentionally doing it wrong. Goes to show, I suppose! I went there and told them that I'd be working with them. They seemed to welcome it.

Dear diary, these people are strange. Not only they waste much of their produce by crippling it, they also seem to be very interested in discredited evolutionary stories. I offered to share Dr. Hovind's videos with them. They agreed, if I would sit and study their odd evolutionary ramblings in return, so I did. Didn't get much out of it, but had a pretty interesting argument with Katia. She told me that what they are doing is called "mutation breeding" and is intended to restore the traditional flavors of this part of Italy. I told her that it doesn't work this way, but a quick talk with the local elders let me know that indeed this place was famous for its strong garlic and pepper flavors before Jesus regenerated the Earth.

Dear diary, the people I am to minister to asked me to pray over the health of the seeds in terraria whose last digit is even. They didn't seem to be mocking me, and asked me in earnest. Maybe I'm making progress. Just to be on the safe side, I will pray over the health of all the seeds in the greenhouse, every night.

Dear diary, I was almost kicked out of the farm today. However, Katia showed up at the meeting, and I got a long and exhasperated lecture on experimental protocol instead. Basically, they were worried that me praying over all the plants ruined their experiment! They don't want to hide their work from me, but it looks like that they've only got some results on the batches that were in the small spare greenhouse. I am told that this is called, not deception, but a double-blind study. Some of the folks I am trying to minister to are angry because they felt that I lied to them - I don't see it - and some are very happy because they have isolated another variable. Seems that isolating variables is a big chunk of the whole point. Katia was very passionate in defending me, although her explanation on experimental methods was a little jumbled.

Dear diary, Grandmother Felicina taught us how to fry garlic in olive oil. This used up almost all the experimental garlic and pepper that we could spare. We used the result instead of butter for last night's steamed vegetables. It tasted very strange and new. Felicina says that we've almost got a decent peperoncino going, although it's not nearly as strong as what she remembers it like. She also said that she'd ask Alicia to make a proper batch of pasta, since now it's worth making again. The people I am working with were so happy and proud! I proposed that they send some of this stuff as an offering to the Temple, and to my surprise, they actually agreed - as soon as the work is done, of course. I haven't made any converts yet, but they are happy to let me preach, and have even sent a couple of volunteers when the community decided to restore the ancient Catholic church. I know that construction work is unbecoming of a lady, so I just helped with the refreshments. Katia went and got her hands dirty, though. We talked about it a little afterwards.

Dear dairy, I am sorry to say it, but I had to leave the unbelievers' farm. No less than Mr. Williams' team is visiting this territory from Jerusalem next week, so, since they want to start selling their produce, they've decided to do a public demo to capitalize on the media exposure. I wanted to help, so I explained how it might be done respectfully, and we argued a little - Mr. Williams will do a meet and greet with the local community leaders, and this being Italy, there will be a feast: the unbelieving farmers wanted to essentially take over the event and make it all about them. Katia again came to my defense, but then, about halfway through.. broke down. I stopped trying to make my point, and followed her to the living quarters, where I found her crying. She first tried to push me off, then hugged me, and opened her heart to me in a most worrying way. It turns out the reason why Katia kept standing up for me, and defended me against some of the others, is that she is in unnatural lust with me. She confessed so herself, although she called it love. I've never had someone declare their love to me before... I explained her about the kinds of love that are allotted to men and women, and she recited the relevant Scripture with me almost in unison, except that she followed by all sort of ancient secular commentary to the contrary. At that point, much as I hate how I felt about it, I had to rebuke her, and she curled up in a heap. I went back to the group, and we discussed it, and... well, overall I think it will be a kindness if I do not tempt and torment her with my presence. Dear Lord, I would like to stop crying, please. I have no unnatural feelings for Katia, but... she was my friend.

* * *

Cameron points at the two red pepper fruits that the mop-headed kid, maybe in his or her sixties, has on the table that was added to the feast at the last minute. He had been very happy at the warm and enthusiastic response from the local elders when he announced his visits, and had done research ahead enough to know that he'd be asked to try and taste all the local produce, but didn't expect it to turn into an argument.

"Stop saying 'evolution in action', boy, they're still the same kind, you can see it for yourself - it's a red pepper. Yours look a little smaller, if anything, that's all. I call that de-evolution if anything. You say you exposed this to hardship, yes? Not surprising..."

"Never mind that they can no longer interbreed, I've explained speciation to you already. Just - try them and then tell me that they are still the same thing."

Cameron tries the original red pepper, finding it just as good as that which he was used to, grown near New Jerusalem - unsurprisingly, maybe a little blander. "Nice and nourishing, great on a salad. And that's just all there is to it. Why mess with what's been declared very good?"

"Because it used to be better and it can be made it better. Now try ours."

"Why? I told you, it looks sickly."

"You said you would."

"Oh, all right. I should be polite to my hosts even if some of them aren't." Cameron then bites into the small re-potentiated red pepper, makes a face, and demands water. He's handed white bread, fresh from Alicia's bakery, instead - water and hot pepper don't mix. He throws it on the floor, and demands water again, then finally get it.

"So, are they still the same kind?" The unbeliever kid looks triumphant.

After a good two minutes and a liter of water, a scowl on is face, Cameron stops panting and wheezing. Grandmother Felicina intervenes.

"Now, Mr. Williams, normally you don't just chomp on those. Here, this is a simple pasta recipe that we can now make again - aglio, olio e peperoncino. It's the base sauce for many possible things that can be made. Try this, and clean your palate!"

Cameron sees the pasta dish, looking shiny from the oil, with sauteed pepper speckles on it. And that horrid, mutant produce is supposed to make these better? He doesn't think so, curtly thanks Felicina, and leaves without tasting it. The older woman gently chides the kid for the prank he pulled, and smiles when the kid's answer is that Cameron did evrything himself.

"QED, ladies and gentlemen!" The kid gets on a wooden box and starts a little sideshow-barker act, offering the newly powerful for sale, crushed and in little glass vials. "We're still trying to get our farm on its feet, so we won't sell viable seeds for another year - help us out! However, we've put our research work on a web site, and you can buy a copy of the printout right here." Some of the older people try the pasta samples and nod approvingly.

Before long, the little jars of crushed spicy pepper have almost all been sold. I ask to buy one of the leftovers, and am told that since I helped, it's half price. "Are you sure?"

"Maiura, you did the work with us, you can probably replicate it. In fact, I'd like you to have a copy of the research. Take it with you on your next destination maybe? Either you can replicate it, or someone there can. At this stage it's better to have different varieties, otherwise I'd just give you some seeds."

"I... Thank you, Carlotta. Will you think about what I said for all these months?"

"We have been, yes. In fact, Giuseppe has decided to convert. I asked him to wait until this, well, performance was over before he talked to you about it, and..."

I smile. "You didn't want him to pray with Cameron, fess up."

"He didn't either." I wave at Giuseppe; he's helping our friends pack up. Later on in the day, we pray together, and get on the RV headed north, to Lombardy.

Cameron ends up leaving without trying the pasta, and soon puts the mildly embarassing episode out of his mind.

* * *

In the back and on the side, someone makes a note on a portable terminal: it's crude, black and white only, but it's getting better. The operator types on it, "CONFIRMED: The Glorified can be safely incapacitated by biologically produced capsaicin. We have purchased samples and obtained a copy of the research."

A few minutes later, the small solar-powered boat hanging upside down on the sky canopy comes to life for a moment, to deliver the reply.

"Excellent job. Scan it. We can begin preparations for the recombination program."


	3. Interlude - Millennial Kingdom Slang

_Christians, being the dominant culture of the Millennial Kingdom, do not make much use of slang, but missionary organizations - especially youth-oriented ones like Children of the Tribulation - have developed a shorthand to foster group cohesion._

Armor-Bearer: A personal assistant to a traveling minister. Sometimes literal, in that the position also requires bodyguard duty.

Authority, the: A collective term for the New Jerusalem government. It can refer to Jesus, one of the apostles, or simply the bureaucracy formed by Biblical figures. Used when it's not known from whom an edict originated. Not disrespectful, but somewhat informal.

BTR: Stands for "Bachelor till the Rapture". Since the Rapture has already happened, it means somebody who is just not interested in matters of love or sexuality. Using this to imply that someone has deviant sexual tendencies is quite rude, but it happens.

Church: Has taken to meaning the building almost exclusively, rather than "the greater community of believers", for which Ekklesia is used.

Cooties: A situation in which a member of a Christian ministry is romantically attracted to a TOL member, or more commonly the other way round. This happens often enough that there's a slang term for it, which is shared with TOL. A serious enough case of the cooties has prevented or even stopped fights in the past. In these cases, the ministry puts other things on the backburner and works together to ensure salvation of the TOL half of the equation, if the relationship is otherwise acceptable.

Courting: Formal, generally chaperoned dating; the preferred alternative to dating.

D&A: Pronounced DNA like the molecule, it stands for "Dopers and Alkies", young people who are interested in TOL or similar groups mainly because they want a party scene. Ministries are encouraged to provide wholesome alternatives, and try to appeal to these undecideds' better nature.

Kairos!: From "kairos time", it has come to mean "carpe diem", "get a move on", "the moment is favorable. Used as an alternative to "Good luck" before starting the time-sensitive part of a project.

Knee-mail, arrow prayer: Asking the Lord's advice directly (and quickly).

Ministry: Any one organization within the Church; most are bottom-up, but there are a few sanctioned ministries, in which case, the term has blended with the British usage of "ministry" to mean "cabinet-level executive office". Thanks to the lobbying efforts of what was left of the Anglican denomination, there is a formal ban on naming any organization a Ministry of Love, Truth, Peace and Plenty.

Minority World: Areas in which the unsaved are a significant part of the population; the mission field. Derived from pre-Rapture expression "Majority world", except the numbers have flipped since then.

Morning Star: Lucifer. Although he's bound in the lake of fire for 1000 years, the very concept of Satan is still drawing people away from the Light.

Nartex: A space in a church, usually a large anteroom, which may be used for non-worship activities such as community events.

Pew Potato: A churchgoer who is generally uninvolved in church activities; a person whose participation in church does not extend beyond sitting in the pew on Sunday mornings.

Purpling: The fraternization of boys and girls, especially at a church event such as a retreat or camp-out. Generally tolerated within narrow limits.

Put out a fleece, place a fleece: To invoke God's help in making a decision indirectly, by calling for God to show a designated sign. Considered harmless by some, and dangerously close to pagan divination by others.

Redeem the time: Exhortation for a Christian to do something worthwhile during a period of time rather than allowing that time to be wasted in idleness or frivolous pursuits.

Scanlation: Mechanically translating a document from its original language to Standard Hebrew without checking for Scriptural accuracy.

Slacktivist: an anonymous agitator known primarily for writing a widely-distributed essay series online in which s/he advocates for anarchy, heresy and human ego, and who is occasionally linked to terrorist activity in reality. The Slacktivist's true identity, gender and location is unknown. Notably, the Slacktivist has blasphemously argued that the Messiah in the Temple at Jerusalem is not the true Jesus of Christianity, but an inhuman imposter. Occasionally the Slacktivist uses a clipart picture of a grinning male face smoking a pipe as a sort of signature. Early on, an anonymous vandal, perhaps the Slacktivist him- or herself, nailed a sheaf of dot-matrix printer paper containing 95 carefully-reasoned, concise bullet points explaining their position to the front door of New Hope Church in Chicago. Additional missives have appeared in the years since then.

Soul tie: A spiritual connection between two people who have had an intense physical, emotional or spiritual association or relationship. When such a connection is considered to be unhealthful and destructive in the life of the Christian, it can be removed using prayer and spiritual warfare. The term is otherwise neutral.

Zed: A scare story about a zone supposedly outside of YHWH's control and populated by monsters, into which one might fall through carefully hidden and masked trapdoors. Possibly an interdimensional Shangri-La, possibly a parallel reality.

* * *

 _Being a counterculture, The Other Light has generated its own slang, like every human counterculture before it. Some is even coopted from missionary shorthand._

5150: Thought to mean "locked up in the loony bin" pre-Event, the number has been repurposed to mean the number of weeks at which dropping out of TOL and looking into converting is considered self-preservation, rather than betrayal. Also indicates someone who most likely won't be with TOL for long one way or the other.

Amped Out: Fatigued after having been on amphetamines, MDMA, or other uppers. Common after a rave or a crunch run. From the Cyberpunk 2013 roleplaying game.

Authority, the: A collective term for "adults", the Glorified, and the entire hierarchy of mainstream society, all the way up to Turbo-Jesus himself. Often used just to refer to the upper echelons of said society.

Back Shop: The part of the haunt that is open to TOL members only.

Bagged and Tagged: Sentenced to death or long-term confinement (long-term in that any parole would happen after aging to 100) in a way that did not imply Divine intervention.

Birbat, to birbat: To insist on something incredibly asinine. Rust City-specific slang, owing to a particularly annoying fox who was kicked out of the local haunt. The slang's stuck, even ten years later.

BRA: Battle-Ready Armor. Given the amount of Divine intervention in firefights in which the Glorified are involved, a BRA has to be lightning-proof and include a transcutaneous pacing system to prevent heart attacks. For much of TOL's history, this technology was theoretical. Pronounced "bra" with all the amount of puns and immature jokes that it entails.

Bronze: Non-derogative term for law enforcement officials. From the movie Mad Max by way of the Cyberpunk RPG. Can be used to indicate respect for a LEO who enforces civil law rather than local mores.

Casual: A TOLer who's involved in more than the party culture, but is largely uninvolved in the day-to-day operations of TOL. Contrasted with a styler. There are cells that encourage this kind of distinction and argue that being anything less than a styler is somehow a betrayal of principle, and there are cells that counter that stylers are mythical beasts anyway and it's better to take care of yourself. The argument goes round and round. No one ever wins.

Cooties: A situation in which a TOL member is romantically attracted to an under-100 person in a Christian workgroup, or vice versa. Comes from the Children of the Tribulation workgroup. This happens often enough that there's a slang term for it.

Crew: On a larger scale, a TOL workgroup that has no emotional bonds.

Cuddle puddle: Often confused for polyamory by Christians, a cuddle puddle is private time in which a group of friends share in physical but nonsexual intimacy. A known way to decompress after a run.

D&A: Pronounced DNA like the molecule, it stands for "Dopers and Alkies", young people who are interested in TOL mainly or exclusively as a party scene. Potential raw material. Unscrupulous TOL cells use them as a source of income, scrupulous TOL cells try to help them grow out of this phase. Co-opted from Christian workgroup shorthand.

Eighty-sixed, Decommissioned: Converted at end of life. Said of someone who converts close to their 100th birthday, in which case it's not a pejorative.

Evening Star: Lucifer. Since the Morning and Evening Star are, astronomically, both the planet Venus, Lucifer is generally referred to in his capacity of herald of the night, rather than the new day, being as there hasn't been a proper night since the Quake.

Face: The member of a wing who's best at interacting with figures outside the wing, be they other members of TOL, unaffiliated gray-marketeers and dealers, mungos, or salties.

Fairyheading: Indulging in excessive escapism, whether it be drugs, partying, videogames or fiction. A somewhat common problem with TOL recruits. Known to happen to Christians, albeit more rarely.

Foreman: The person in charge of a TOL haunt. The term is gender-neutral. From a legend about someone who almost succeeded in stopping the Glorious Appearing.

Fox: A Christian who wants to set up shop inside a haunt to provide a "fair and balanced" counterpoint. Current TOL policy is to allow this in most public haunts, to the limit of "one fox per henhouse".

Friendleader: The primary decision-maker of a wing; usually not an official position, it's just something that happens.

Front Shop: The part of the haunt that's open to TOL, unaffiliated, and (depending on how the haunt supports itself financially) even Christians.

Ghostbusters: TOL personnel who specialize in fighting or capturing Glorifieds and other supernatural agents. They are trained in the proper tactical use of BRA armor and K-Switch weapons and gear.

Got Ended: Killed by direct Divine intervention. Occasionally used metaphorically, e.g. to mean a raid in which a haunt was completely razed.

Haunt: The local TOL base of operation. Sometimes it's a disused warehouse, occasionally it's a library or a planetarium, usually it's a pub if the group can afford it.

Hawking Day: a feast day celebrated by TOL members in honor of the birth and life of Stephen Hawking, traditionally held on January 8. The births of Albert Einstein, Neil Armstrong, Yuri Gagarin, Alan Turing, Niels Bohr, Carl Sagan, Nikola Tesla and Neil deGrasse Tyson, among others, are also holidays celebrated by many TOL members as exemplars of human intellect, will and achievement. As Isaac Newton was both devout (arguably) and an alchemist, celebrations held on his birthday are somewhat controversial, but he is generally grandfathered in as the father of modern physics. Also known as "Sadie Hawking Day", in that female participants (TOL or unaffiliated) ask male participants for a date or a dance, opposite to traditional courting.

International Blog: While most of the post-Appearing internet is Web-based and follows a client-server architecture, TOL's communication system resembles Usenet in that it has no centralization. An "international blog" is an intentionally nonsensical term to indicate a web-based usenet gateway.

K-switch: An automated system that can be turned on or off nondeterministically, to avoid a direct causal link between the user and the system's effect. From "kosher switch". One of the few ways to conduct a non-suicide hostile action against a Glorified. Due to how K-switches work, there is no way to control their activation timing, making them very unpredictable and somewhat unreliable.

Last Rite: An oath that is sworn by TOL members who are about to be decommissioned, in which they pledge to never actively attack TOL operations in their new life. Whether the oath works or not is debatable, but a former TOLer violating the Last Rite has a big target on their back.

Lifestyler/styler: a TOLer who's devoted every scrap of their time and energy to TOL. Contrasted with a casual.

Mourningtide, Mourning Eve: the day TOL members ritually mourn the complete destruction of Earth's natural features at the end of the Tribulation by Christ. TOL members sometimes travel to the places where mountain ranges, notable peaks, and other natural features such as rainforests, ice caps, glaciers and canyons once stood and hold remembrance ceremonies there. Traditionally held on the former winter solstice, a traditional pagan day of celebration.

Mungo: Anyone older than 100, a "grown up".

Muppet: Glorified individual. Might be from the old TV show, or from "meat puppet". Derogatory.

Nintendium: Slang for anything that's super durable, due to the fact that Nintendo consoles are often, if maintained properly, _still_ functional.

Niven Syndrome: a dissociative disorder related to, but separate from, "Pining for the Fjords." In Niven Syndrome, due to the radical, unnatural paradigm shift in the basic nature of the world around them in the years since the Glorious Appearing, the subject comes to believe with utter conviction that the reality in which they reside is not, in fact, "real." Wild mood swings and erratic behavior are extremely common. In extreme cases, the subject may come to believe that they are the only real thing in existence, or that their actions are completely divorced from any kind of personal responsibility whatsoever. Sufferers may even come to believe that the real world exists and is going on somewhere just out of the range of their senses, and that somehow, it may even be possible to travel there.

Noah, to do a Noah: to do something stupid, by mistake or on purpose; to induce schadenfreude in someone. After an incident wherein the prophet Noah tripped on live TV.

Nodders: Internal name for The Only Light, a militant subculture of TOL that focuses on military buildup and somehow does not believe in YHWH at all. Pejorative in that Nodders are widely considered to be fanatics, idiots, or both.

Outies: Internal name for The Outer Light, a generally peaceful subculture of TOL that focuses on restoring access to space. In other contexts, euphemism for either breasts, or other parts.

Pining for the Fjords: A peculiar form of flash depression and feeling of helplessness brought about by consumption of pre-Appearing media in which the Earth's natural beauty is evident. From the Monty Python sketch, although the term is never used in jest anymore. The sufferer will curl up and play dead. Chemical treatment exists, but the best remedy is physical contact with a loved one.

Phi: Almost but not quite pronounced "fie", used to refer to someone without making assumptions about their gender or status. Probably from "philo", as in friend.

Poke: A small-scale chat client, something like AIM, that some members of the younger generations use to talk to each other; the latest Poke program is a standard part of The Packet. TOL discourages discussion of important business through Poke, because it'd be rather easy for a tag hag to save the relevant logs. It's intensely slow, balky, and buggy, and not really usable outside of metropolitan areas where it's easier to get enough bandwidth to avoid ping drops. Poke piggybacks on the ICMP ping and trace protocols, which makes it insecure (spoofing is trivial) but practically impossible to block.

Quaker: Depending on the haunt, this has different meanings. 1: A person who makes video games. So-called because many, many games use the Quake engine. (Non-shooter games include text adventures and some very, very primitive JRPGs.) 2: A pacifist; someone who refuses to use violence, even against TML, Glorified, and other such beasts. They think there's some way of reasoning with the Authority, and are willing to die to prove it.

Revenant, Rev: Someone who, after converting to TML, comes back to the local haunt, either to try and preach, or just to hang out. Those who try to preach are sometimes called "banshees" and those who want to reconnect are sometimes called "zombos".

Saltie: Derogatory term for law and morality enforcement officials, specifically vice cops. Sometimes spelled "Psalty", or variations.

Sandwich: Generally pronounced with a mock-Russian accent ("saandvich"). An oblique way to refer to LGBT issues where it's not safe to do so directly. Derived from "lettuce, guacamole, bacon, tomato". LGBT-friendly food establishments are known to offer the actual dish on the menu, or have it available as an option, as a signal. "Sandwich stuffer" has become a derogatory term for a LGBT individual among the sections of TOL that disapprove of sexual diversity.

Slacktivist: an anonymous philosopher known primarily for writing a widely-distributed essay series online in which s/he advocates for freedom, free will and human self-determination, and who is occasionally linked to resistance activity in reality. The Slacktivist's true identity, gender and location is unknown. Notably, the Slacktivist has argued that the supernatural entity in the Temple at Jerusalem is not the true Jesus of Christianity, but an inhuman imposter. Occasionally the Slacktivist uses a clipart picture of a grinning male face smoking a pipe as a sort of signature.

Shadow Library: One of TOL's long term projects has been scanning and pirating print media, originally to preserve pre-Event print media and translating them into Standard Hebrew. A Shadow Library is a piece of equipment (usually a self-contained microfilm reader or a computer) containing a reasonably current copy of the master archive. This extends to TOL-produced writing that was rejected for publication.

South Carolina Products, LTD: a TOL research group (with many names) which aims to understand and characterize the biological, chemical and physical nature of Glorifieds and other supernatural entities with an eye toward containing and neutralizing them. Named in honor of an extremely obscure, possibly entirely legendary, pre-Tribulation organization which supposedly cataloged and isolated threats and artifacts of an "anomalous" nature. Also known as Scanner Combination Printers, Sales Consultant Pioneers, et al.

Tag hag: A Christian who feigns interest in some TOL work, such as philosophy classes, in order to find an excuse to call a raid. The stereotype is that most tag hags are female, hence the name, but it's not particularly accurate. Tag-hagging is to engage in such behavior. Revenants who tag-hag their former haunt are rare, dangerous, and hated.

The Packet: TOL binary file transfer is generally accomplished via sneakernet, due to bandwidth constraints. The Packet is a large collection of files that makes the rounds by CD, USB stick, or semiremovable hard drive. Normally it contains programs, music and video, since text can be distributed via wire. There is speculation that particular files in each Packet are used as one-time pads for encrypted communication; a recent Packet may have some intelligence value beyond being a handy repository of utilities.

Throng: The total membership of a TOL haunt, including nonaffiliated people who show up for parties or events.

TML: Too Much Light. Occasionally used to mean Christianity or in general the cult of YHWH. Sarcastic.

Tool Shed: A haunt that isn't very well established, due to being new or having been recently raided (see below).

Tool: Self-deprecating for a TOL member (from TOLer). Occasionally used as a response to "I'm a fool for Christ".

Tribe: The total membership of a TOL haunt, including only pledged members who actively advance the agenda.

Turbo-Jesus/TJ: Slang obvious in meaning.

Underground Monorail: a secret TOL network that exists to ferry LGBT people (as well as others) whose lives are threatened by the reigning moral Flipside authorities out of communities where their lives are in danger to places of safety. Most Monorail members are TOL, for obvious reasons. The network is organized into cells, anonymity is required and stations and safehouses move frequently. Members may recognize each other with alliterative passphrases involving the letter "m," and safehouses and stations along the routes are often marked with some form of stylized "m" or a train.

Went/Gone to Carb: Said of a member that had the means, tech, and gumption to be cryogenically frozen before (or in some cases right after) their untimely demise, rather than eighty-sixing. Comes from the fictional material "carbonite".

Wing: On a small scale, TOL workgroups tend to self-organize on personal friendship lines; one's wing is one such group of close friends on a mission. "You need two wings to fly" is common advice to remind someone that they should not hyperfocus over one group of friends (see other people) or one project (don't obsess).

Zed: An urban legend about a "free zone" outside of YHWH's control, supposedly accessible via carefully guarded and masked portals. Possibly an interdimensional Shangri-La, possibly a parallel reality.


	4. Sarsour - Here We Are

Abdullah led Sarsour in prayer in his parents' living room, with them kneeling beside each other at the couch, like the night before. They were still crying, of course, but it would be the last tears they'd shed for a long time.

"Are you going to stay here for a while?"

"I've been helping Mudawar coordinate the relief supply effort to Eg- I mean Osaze, and I'd like to continue doing so, just with you rather than against you."

"Relief effort?"

The four sat down after Sarsour's mother brought her husband, her son and her guest refreshments in the form of cold tea from the plants just outside - it was made in the Moroccan tradition, thick and with some of the leaves floating free in it.

"Yeah, that was part of our job, coordinating supplies going into Osaze and making sure they wouldn't get intercepted at the border."

"What sort of supplies?" Abdullah imagined drugs or weapons coming into a country already afflicted by Divine drought.

"Oh, you know. Pumps, solar panels, desalinators modules. One of the things we were trying to do was making sure that a The Only Light wing that had an idea for a windtrap, you know, like in Dune, got enough resources to develop it..."

"We kept all your books, you know" Sarsour's father interjected "even those really long sci-fi ones. I'm sorry I told you to stop reading them before you left."

Sarsour bowed his head at his father, and the two smiled to each other. "Thank you." Pre-Rapture books were fairly rare, and Sarsour had been proud of his small collection, enough so to consider stealing it from his former home, although he never could bring himself to do it.

Abdullah raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

Sarsour's face brightened up, and his mom smiled to herself - her son still did that little head shake movement that he did when he used to launch into a long geeky dissertation on a topic. She'd got her youngest back on one piece. "Water! One of the reasons why it hasn't been that hard on the people of, Osaze, is that various TOL cells brought in and set up water extraction equipment in their territories. The idea was to provide immediate relief to the people and paint God as the bad guy, obviously."

Abdullah nodded gravely. "I hear reports out of Captain Steele's missionary team, they will soon reach Siwa, and they are certain that God will lift His punishment after people in that city respond to the call. But I have to praise your efforts, however misguided."

Sarsour shrugged. "The veggie-maniacs won't be happy to lose their experimental playground..." At three puzzled pairs of eyes looking at him, he explained. "Oh. It's another TOL subgroup. Tree Of Life. They've been working on all sort of botanical projects. Having a desert environment to experiment with was something they were looking forward to. They're trying to bring back spicy peppers, yellow raspberries, all the varieties that were lost under Carpathia, basically. Also, drought-resistant plants. And stranger things. TOL people are... well, we - they - take what they can get, so you get some weirdos. There's a whole team that is working on combustible lemons that can be used to burn houses down. In this case Tree Of Life was working on growing a wind-wall of desert-adapted succulents to trap moisture with."

"Hmm. Did you know that the reason why Kenny had the trouble I mentioned, is that Qasim smuggled out an org chart for COT and blamed Kenny?"

"No, but that's not surprising. Especially The Only Light guys, they want a war, so they've been pushing everybody to do misdirection like that. Maskirovka. It's Russian, I think."

Sarsour's dad agreed. "Sounds like your former friends got a bit too much into Cold War literature. Well, we know how that one ended."

"So who's The Only Light?" asked his wife.

"They're kind of The Other Light's army, I guess. They say that they flat out don't believe in God. Frankly most of the rest of TOL think they're idiots, but, can't be picky with recruits. And some people like the authoritarian mindset." Sarsour shrugged again.

Abdullah leaned forward, interested. "How'd you like to draw me an org chart?"

"Sure, I was about to offer, actually! Heh, that'd drive Qasim up a wall, wouldn't it?"

The four shared a laugh, Sarsour's father telling him to go into his room and get graph paper and a pen. On opening the door to his bedroom, Sarsour fell on his knees, and again prayed in thanks. Everything was exactly how he had left it, save for the bed, which had been made. A closer look told him that his mother had lovingly dusted the desk and posters on the wall, even taking care to not straighten them up. Coming back with pen and drafting paper, he bowed to her, asking her for forgiveness.

Amidst assurance that God already had forgiven Sarsour, the gesture turned into a maternal hug that neither of the two adult men wanted to interrupt.

"...So! Orgchart!" Sarsour said after clearing his throat, trying to sound professional for both Abdullah and his father's benefit. Sarsour drew boxes and lines with a draftsman's precision, without having to use a ruler, on the large piece of paper that had been hastily pinned to the far wall from the couch, and explained as he filled.

"The Other Light - The umbrella organization for all that follow. They handle most of the recruiting, and then shunt recruits with specialized skills towards the relevant sub-organization. Notably, any relief and relocation efforts are handled by The Other Light directly, for propaganda purposes. I guess they're about to find out that all the effort to bring water and pumps into Osaze was for nothing."

"The Only Light - The military arm. Considered fanatics by pretty much everyone else. Their focus is on weapons production, since they haven't had a chance to fight a war just yet. They're working on building underground weapons factories. I know of two of them, we can get them shut down without hurting anyone if we're clever about it."

"The Outer Light - The space program. Chronically underfunded but enthusiastic. They are also in charge of deploying and operating the unmanned canopy-boats that substitute for a satellite network, although The Only Light keeps trying to take over that function. These are really decent folk overall, I think they've even got some collaboration with Christian rocketry hobbyists."

"Tree Of Life - The biotech program. They work to come up with a biological solution for life extension past 100 years and have been attempting to back-breed carnivory into animals. Their botany efforts are towards reviving extinct spices, optimizing weed and opium varieties, and maintaining habitats for plant species that require particular climates that no longer exist in the Millennial Kingdom. They can be really creepy sometimes, especially the medics. They're working on the desert vegetation project, although I guess that's obsolete now."

"Thousand Oaks Library - Responsible for recovering and curating pre-Rapture literature and providing verbatim (non-ideological) translation of it into Standard Hebrew. They also act as a clearinghouse for peer review scientific and philosophical papers that are not accepted by official publications, and perform copy-on-demand services when they can. They're working on setting up a Net-based university, although I don't know how that will work for being accredited."

"Tunnel Of Love - A modern incarnation of the Underground Railroad, operating more or less in the same way and geared towards LGBT individuals who want to find somewhere safe to live, love, and work. That's their pitch anyway. I think they shut down the Kids on Fire School of Ministry a couple years ago."

"Transfer Online, Inc. - The IT arm of the organization. Their portfolio is keeping the data lines open no matter what. They also do most of the day to day numerical analysis for other sub-organizations. They're working on something called the Omega, but it's very hush hush. They're also nice guys, I know for a fact that they actually worked alongside missionaries in the Philippines and a couple of other places, to get Net nodes set up."

"Thinking Out Loud - A sort of academic society that organizes lectures and debates on various topics including secularism, art and music appreciation, and the like. They are especially geared towards debating believers, if it can be done safely. Cynics note that they're basically a lightning-rod org. I was actually scouted by them, but it wasn't my thing."

"Transport Operations Logistics - The truckers, sailors, and smugglers that make sure that resources are available where they are needed. TTI was actually mostly about doing their fake paperwork, although we did have a couple of theology meetings. This one I can't tell you much about, because of the last rite oath."

"Teachers On Loan - Contrary to Thinking Out Loud, this sub-org focuses on making sure that TOL personnel receives career-long training. They also support disaster relief teams by providing educational services to areas subject to Divine blight. Their job in Osaze was interviewing older folks about water conservation culture, adapting it, and then spreading the message to younger folks so as to better cope with the drought."

"Tourism and Outdoor Leadership - The closest thing TOL has to Boy and Girl Scouts. With the world flattened, there isn't much call for fieldcraft skills in normal situations, but kids growing up outside of believing areas are more than likely to encounter abnormal situations. The "tourism" part is used to promote youth travel that isn't tied to mission trips, although the world is a lot more uniform than it used to be, they believe that there is still something to learn through travel. The Only Light tries to recruit from these guys a lot. They also run some day care centers."

"Transcranial Oblique Lateral - I'm not sure what they do, it's a very new thing, they split off from Tree Of Life recently. All I know is that they do brain surgeries and work out of a ship somewhere. Super creepy if you ask me."

Sarsour took a big breath, and folded up the graph paper like a scroll, then handed it off to Abdullah. His mom urged him to finish his tea.

"Well... I don't know what to say. It looks like you're still the hard working kid I raised" Sarsour's dad said. "This is pretty serious material, especially the weapons factories and the brain surgery."

Abdullah took the scroll, and stood up, rather towering over Sarsour. "Your father is right - I should take this to the authorities. I know that you want to work at COT, but why don't you take a few days of rest with your family first? You'll have to do a formal interview of course..."

Sarsour's parents hugged him and smiled at Abdullah as he was leaving. "Of course!"

Abdullah Smith looked back at Sarsour's home, and let himself see the light coming from within it as warmer than it had been just half a hour ago. The first thing he would have to do was fax this org chart to Rayford, with a copy to Cameron and Chloe. As for TOL... it seemed to him that they were trying to build a culture, not just an army. He smiled to himself - universities and factories and hospitals staffed by children. The parts that weren't genuinely worrying felt silly, like the world's biggest game of pretend; if it wasn't orchestrated for the benefit of the Pretender, it would have been endearing. What next, a treehouse on the moon?


	5. Quinn - Baby Steps

A clandestine hospital. All twelve patients are heavily intubated. Six are screaming. Four are quiet. Two have flatlined.

"Frontal leucotomy?"

"Note the lack of screaming."

"What do we need with vegetables?"

"It's a step beyond what we had gotten this far. Besides, think about it. Hook up a few catethers, and this state can be maintained indefinitely."

"Again, we don't need vegetables. And we certainly don't need the overhead - you know how expensive each of these setups are. The Only Light guys keep trying to get our resource allocation cut."

"That's the point. Work for us, or set up a trust fund in our favor - you die, we put you under, keep you out of Hell until the end of the Millennium, all for a low monthly fee. I bet that even believing parents or significant others would pay up."

"Centuries versus an eternity. Although... I suppose it'd help us study aging past 100 in a nonbeliever if the body is intact."

"Yes, centuries versus an eternity, but people who are grieving don't make that sort of math. Besides - we might come up with something else later on. And most bodies would be intact. The body just stops working, the soul goes. Except, at this point keeping the heart beating and the brain cycling is easy work, if we can afford it."

"How about the fact that these people are, you know, lobotomized? You don't get better from that. Even if we win... they'd be still drool factories."

"Who knows? Maybe fifty years down the line someone'll work out how to regrow brain tissue. Besides, it beats being in Hell. We just put it in clinical terms to stop customers from freaking out. They look peaceful, look, they even wiggle a bit. Enough myostimulation and I bet I can get one to say ma-ma."

"Hmm. The financial model checks out... Okay, you convinced me. If nothing else, once we're a financial asset rather than a liability, The Only Light meatheads can't ask that we turn the lights off."

"Plus, there's a political angle." A third figure. One of the lobotomized patients wiggles.

"What's that, Foreman?"

"This will make the project self-sufficient. Once it is, we can grant rent exemptions on a loyalty basis. It looks better than cryo. May I suggest a next step?"

"Sure."

"Any way we can disconnect the lobe without destroying it? Give us an on off switch for the suffering?"

"... Oh. Loyalty basis. Including the loyalty of their family and friends."

"You catch on. Keep up the good work, both of you."

* * *

"They had it a lot easier in the old Age. What I wouldn't give for one embryonic stem cell line."

"We got Glorified cell lines."

"They don't take."

"How's the pig tests coming?"

"That cyberpunk Lord of the Rings adaptation that's coming up? The mecha-boar closeup shots are real, they're using our test subject. It was cheaper than CGI, and they paid up for the photo op."

The thing in the pen had three metal hoofs and squealed like an air raid siren. It was reasonably happy, given that it was drugged out of its mind. "Doesn't do much for psych tests, though. Pigs don't exactly have souls. We can't figure out what's going on there."

"So we're calling that done?"

"Pretty much. We're just keeping the pig around to check for longterm nerve damage at the interface points."

"Taste tests?"

"No go. We can't suppress the vomit reflex. The interesting thing is that it trips with the drool cases, too, unless we flat out fry the whole brain."

"Vegetarian zombies. Great. Frankenstein would be proud. How many brains did you scoop out?"

"Just the two that stopped paying up. Look, every program has got dead ends. We're in the black, we're getting there with the portable controller, this is good training for army medics, The Only Light guys are leaving us alone, the psalties haven't got a clue..."

"Yeah, that's the thing, actually. They do now. One of the decoy boats got raided."

"Dammit. So they know we're on a ship."

"Yeah. Besides, look." He held up a white hair. Admittedly, this sort of life aged one prematurely - if it wasn't the stress or the sleep deprivation, the amphetamines tended to do it - but this one wasn't the result of any particular crunch session or shock. "Huh. How old are you again?"

"Fifty-one-fifty." That was in weeks. Less than a year to go for Herbert.

She whistled. "Rotate out? You can quit, you know. Nobody would think less of you."

"I... No, dammit! What if I break my oath? I know too much. Besides, we're so close!"

"... Banging a fist on the workbench won't help. Herbert? I know you got the boss hat for the semester, but take a break, that's an order. No coffee, no pills, just... raid the hard drive, binge on Doctor Who or something, just stop for a bit."

"Thank you, Megan."

* * *

"Get up!"

"Wh-wha? raid? what?"

"Get up!"

"Brack, what's going on?"

Brackish Okun looked considerably older than his 85 years. No surprises there: aging surgery was the easiest way for Tree Of Life scientists to not get treated like kids in the wider world. The crow's feet under his eyes however were genuine, from sleepless nights and stimulants.

"Milton. It's Quinn."

"Yeah. Look, we may have to let that one go. Don't feel bad. You were up eighteen hours. Botching a lobo is-"

"She's awake."

"That's a problem. We got overnight guests touring the facility. Don't need any screamers."

"No, she's awake. Sat up. Started talking. Well, wanted a hit of crack."

Dr. Milton Isaacs got up in one fluid movement, grabbed a pair of glasses, and followed his boyfriend to the chop shop. On the way, he looked up the patient file on the stenopad.

Quinn Morrighan Storm, birth name unknown. Signed up for a tour of duty with Tunnel Of Love, earned enough chits for sex reassignment surgery, dropped out due to a drug problem. Spent decades alternating between meth-fiend homelessness and software work with various groups, including Transfer On Line on their Omega project. The AI guys donated enough loyalty chits to push her past the threshold for neuro-retirement, and she had ticked the experimental box. Had a trainee do the leucotomy right before the big one-oh-oh, he botched it. Quinn hit the last birthday while recuperating towards the next attempt, started screaming out the Hell-pain once revived by the metabolic extension controller. Put her under kinetically, that is, catether stand to the head, due to, well, the trainees freaking out. Extent of brain damage unknown. "Fantastic brain if she could be persuaded to stop frying it every two hours. Well, before the head trauma anyway. D&A poster child, really. At least we got some work out of her."

"And she's _awake_?"

"Mostly. Asked for stimulants. Over and over. Told me to fuck off when I said no, so it wasn't just a semantic residue loop. And she's not screaming about the fire."

"Typical. Centuries of work and we hit the jackpot by blind luck. Who knows?"

"To be fair, we hit this winning lottery ticket because we kept buying 'em... Anyway, just the logistics AI guys. They asked. It was their chits after all."

Quinn was sitting up in the spartan hospital cot, still heavily intubated. Right eye droopy, a few red strands of hair and wires poking out of the head bandage, left hand dangling uselessly.

"... At least a soda. Please. Please."

Brak and Milton stopped talking and almost dropped their stenopads. Milton called in an igor on the intercom, and a few seconds later, a small soda bottle had been delivered through the pneumatic tube normally used for samples and medication.

"Can you hold it?"

Quinn nodded and opened her right hand and got the soda in a weak grasp. She squeezed, and spilled half of it on her bed. Milton quickly cleaned it up before it reached any electrodes.

"How do you feel?"

"I... I don't. Numb. It's like there's nothing in my hand. I can't feel the blankets, either."

Milton helped Quinn drink. "You haven't used your stomach in days. You're probably going to-"

Quinn let the soda bottle drop, heaved a little, and froze for a second, then slowly cleaned her mouth on her hand. To the doctors' surprise, she bit her finger hard enough to draw blood. "Doesn't hurt. Doesn't feel like anything. Hungry."

"...We blew out your ability to feel pain. And other things, it looks like it. But you're conscious."

"This - This is a m - major breakthrough!" The "M" word didn't get thrown around much in TOL circles. "You're... you're all there!"

"Huh. I think so. Can I have a coke? No, other coke."

* * *

The rehab had been hard. Quinn's left arm had to be pretty much replaced, when all was said and done, so that her attenuated neural impulses could move it. A faint sequence of beeps in her ear told her the state of the myoelectrical systems keeping her body and brain ticking. She'd taken to hum to it. Today's exercise was handwriting. She'd been managing it, more or less. So she wrote in her own made-up alphabet, just because it came a little easier.

''I am not among the living, and so I cannot die. But neither am I dead. Too long I've been starving to death and haven't died. I feel nothing. Not the wind on my face, nor the spray of the sea...nor the warmth of a woman's flesh. You best start believing in ghost stories, Omega. You're in one!''

* * *

"So, it actually worked. You realize we won't be able to keep it to ourselves for long."

The facility head used to be Only Light, and still wore some militaria to go with it - technically, he still had a rank. It smoothed things down with the meatheads, so few of the researchers begrudged it.

"We've gotten lucky. Eventually we will be able to replicate the process reliably, but I wouldn't bet on it."

"Right. Now, given Who we are against, we have to assume Murphy's Law is in full effect, so let's disseminate the technique."

"I disagree. We can use this to leverage all sort of stuff from the other TOL branches."

"I disagree with that. Information wants to be free. Let's say that everybody involved drops their helmets and gets zapped by lightning tomorrow - we want people to keep working."

"All right, I concede, two to one on the record?"

The nominal boss of the facility nodded. "Do we have a procedure?"

"Sort of. The electronics are easy. Pacemaker, limbic stimulator to prevent seizures and Hell nightmares, and a ventricular assist just in case. And an immunosuppressant dispenser to prevent rejection for all this stuff. Heart and brain stimulators duplicated, just in case. We don't have enough lithium for batteries, so we're using a NiCad and she has to charge it every day, lasts three in an emergency."

"The surgical part is harder. We've got systems installation down to an art by now, what we can't replicate reliably is removing the concept of pain in the subject without making too much brain puree. Quinn has lost her sense of touch and her ability to feel pleasure, as well as a lot of reflexes. Can't get tired, either."

"Bet the Only Light army guys will love that. I suppose that we have to keep trying, develop a procedure that's reliable."

"I agree."

"I disagree. That's a lot of people we're brain-frying enough that their soul would decouple. It's not what they're paying for, at least."

"So we do it on a discount or even free-to-try basis. It's actually better than being lobotomized if it works."

"And Hell if it doesn't. But you've a point, this workgroup is all about long term gains. Okay, three to none on the record?"

"Record approved and... there, sent to the databank for dissemination. What do you two plan to do?"

"I'm going to get my wing to focus on making the Metabolic Extension Controller smaller."

"I'm going to get started on formalizing a procedure. Guess we're back to doing animal testing for a while."

"Excellent. I'm going to carefully leak some of this to the various notables. Christians, too."

"What?"

"Why?"

"It'll get out eventually, so I'm going to embellish this enough that they'll think it's a propaganda op from our side. We'll need a better poster child than a meth addict, although that is handy in our test subject. Meeting adjourned?"

The two TOL medics nodded in acknowledgement.

"Meeting adjourned. Ave Humanitas!"

"Live long and prosper!"

"Vigilo Confido!"

Each saluted in a different way, and went off to their respective tasks.

* * *

Sarsour had not been in San Angeles an hour before he was engaged by a neighbor curious to know what he thought of the most recent rumors.

"I did not know we even had people of the Other Light within our borders," the neighbor said. "But I did hear some crazy stories."

"TOL is spreading quickly," Sarsour said, unwilling, of course, to reveal that he was in Pacifica for the express purpose of ministering to them as his mentor Abdullah Smith once had to him. "Tell me what you heard."

"If possible," the man said, "there is a faction within TOL that is even more radical than their mainstream. They believe that if they can somehow keep their agents' bodies ticking with electronics and prostheses, they can create a super mongrel race of automatic people on their side who would feel no fear, no pain, and be able to live past one hundred. Imagine if they are right."

"They are wrong," Sarsour said. "Simply wrong."

"How can you say that?"

"It only stands to reason, friend. It is permitted to man once to die, and then the judgement."

Not a dozen kilometers away, Quinn felt the launch's hull hit the beach. She took a hit, hid the last few wires in her hair, locked her wheelchair, stood up, and made a few baby steps towards the ramp.


	6. Kevin & Alan - OMEGA TXT

**YOU ARE BEING MONITORED** , said the sign on the wall of the datacenter.

Somewhere unimportant, Sysadmin Kevin and Sysadmin Alan are chewing the fat. Kevin is showing off his last project. Alan, as per usual, is playing Lucifer's advocate.

"... so basically, it's been doing about eighty percent of my job these past two months. I'm about to go public with it. I was thinking of calling it Open Middleware Enabling Grid Applications."

"I call it a complete mess. You have... a MS-DOS kernel launching a Linux kernel as a TSR that never actually terminates?"

"Look, some of our legacy architecture is literally 900 years old. The believers are in worse shape, if possible, they're still using Polaroids and fax machines, for Tesla's sake! People don't have the time, inclination, or skill to touch it without making a giant mess of it. This is the easiest way to handle thigns backwards-compatibility wise. It ensures that some part of the system will run on, well, any damn thing really."

"Okay. So we have something that looks a bit like an AI if you squint and don't understand what's actually going on. What's the difference between this and an expert system?"

"Add a personnel roster and it will, most of the time, know who should make a particular decision. Including updating the personnel roster. And it's smart enough to dampen upheavals by getting multiple opinions. Still vulnerable to a 51% attack, of course."

"Again... this is better than an expert system... why?"

"Dilution of responsibility. What happens if, say, we decide to put a hit on a preacher?"

"We don't, because everyone in that chain of command gets zapped."

"Exactly. Say that the system sees that it'd be a good idea if a preacher was done. It asks one expert to plan a theoretical hit, one expert to plan theoretical logistics, and so on, and then directs the grunts. At worst, we only lose the grunts. Dilution of responsibility."

"Have you tried it?"

"I turned it on. I don't actually know if it's ordered any hits on anybody. We'll have to see if it works or not."

"That's a bit cynical."

"Not cynical, amoral. That's the point. It lets people think about consequences rather than principles. That way, well... people can think about principles when they choose to."

"You're pretty devious for an avowed pacifist."

"I want people to have a choice, otherwise I wouldn't be working here. Also, continuity. Every what, five, six years we get a new Supreme Leader or Grand Poobah or whatever they want to call themselves, in their late eighties or nineties, who spent their whole career scheming to get to the top and want to put their mark on The Other Light. So no long-term programs advance. The only reason why we have managed to build an army at all is that it was the core directive of the first two or three guys, and those stuck by tradition. Look man - Yahweh is a better tyrant than any of our guys, because He's been doing it for longer. We can't win by aping His style of governance. Omega would let us do bottom-up more efficiently."

"Can't be worse than what we have now. I like that. Very Sun Tzu."

"Finally... it can be a figurehead, a rallying point. The believers have TurboJesus, for all that He barely ever leaves the Temple. What do we have?"

"Lucifer."

"Stuck in a hole. And I point out that his warmaking skills were abysmal. How about something that looks like one of those super-smart AIs from movies, HAL 9000 and so on?"

"The leadership won't like it one bit - why would they fund something that undermines them?"

"Okay, so we call it something like... a wise advisor, a superego for the organization. A butler. Let the leadership use it to order drinks and they won't think it wants to take over."

"Still - Oh, actually, I know. Let's call it a they, rather than an it. Each node is its own thing. The Omega are many. It looks more powerful to the rank and file, and less like a rival to the leadership."

"I like that. Can I use it?"

A nod, and a few pronouns in a Powerpoint presentation change.

Sysadmin Edward comes into the room. He's the boss, and is enough of a stiff that he wants some sort of a salute, so Kevin and Alan lazily oblige.

"So... I was monitoring you guys, and I've gotta say... This is a great idea, guys. We should take it to the Council immediately. But let's call them... Legion. Legacy Enhancement through Grid Integration and Organic Networking."

"The heck is organic networking?"

"Doesn't matter, it's just a buzzword. Maybe tell them we've hooked up a brain to the network. Can you guys get a prop ready in case they want to see it?"

"Uh, sure, I guess."

"Excellent! Let me handle the presentation and by next week my new application will be deployed across every network node run by The Other Light!"

"... -your- new application?"

"Why, yes. This by itself is almost worth a Council seat, so..." There's a gun in Sysadmin Edward's hand, pointed at Sysadmin Kevin.

"I have a better idea. How about no?" There's a crash cart's CRT monitor in Sysadmin Alan's hands. Sysadmin Edward dies almost instantly when the CRT is brought to bear on his head and implodes across his face.

Almost. Two shots bang out of the handgun, missing Sysadmin Kevin and hitting the wall. The sign on the wall now says **YOU ARE BEING MÖNITORED**.

Promotion by assassination is generally frowned upon within TOL, but the simple fact is, there are only so many competent people to tap for a job. Usually.

"Thanks, Alan. Just - This really messes with my Zen thing, man. Who's taking over for Edward? Central will just send another jackass, and, well, if you want the job you got my vote being as you saved my life and all, but..."

"Nah. Not healty to spend too long around the leadership. Bunch of paranoiacs. But say... Upper middle management position? Sounds like a good test bed to me. Why don't we Weekend at Bernie's it. I guess we've got an incentive to get the Omega up to scratch quickly."

Good sysadmins work hard at their job.

Great sysadmins are cleverly lazy and work as little as possible.

Sysadmin Edward's body was found in his office, mummified and with a monitor on its head, when a courier came in to deliver an award for excellent performance a few months later.

Legend says that Sysadmin Kevin and Sysadmin Alan occasionally return to their nominal workplace from their endless vacation, to do just the occasional tweak.

 **YOU ARE BEING** **MÖNIT** ** **Ö** RED**, says the sign on the wall of the datacenter.

* * *

 _Author's note: The chronicle of The Omega Legacy and of the last 100 years of the Millennium can be found by Googling **"Left Beyond Quest"** and clicking on the Archive link that should show up in first position. It is an interesting piece of fiction written cooperatively over the course of about a year. You can also use the redirect URL at _  
http：／／www．f3．to／omega／


	7. Kurt - Induction

The office building was square and squat, with a roof covered in air conditioning exhausts, solar panels, and various types of antennas. The somewhat overly ornate details like door frames and window sills contrasted sharply with the simplicity of the 3D printed structure; the place had obviously been erected during the initial automatic-building craze.

The tag outside the front door said Theology & Thaumaturgy Institute. Kurt Williams squared his shoulders, mouthed a brief prayer, and walked into the lion's den.

A short girl with a round face and a luxurious mane of black hair pointed a smartphone at him from the receptionist's desk. Kurt thought she looked unnaturally pale.

"Are you a revenant?" he blurted out before reminding himself that a good first impression would require full alertness.

"No, I just got back from Night City. It was pretty fun. Uh, can you turn NFC on on your terminal?"

"Oh. I don't have one." Kurt touched his temple, to mean he was equipped with a cellphone implant instead. Voice only.

"Okay, you'll have to input some personal data by hand then." The girl handed him the smartphone. Kurt started filling out the form.

"I'm here as-"

"...the new chaplain, yes, we asked for one a week ago."

"You -asked- for a Christian chaplain? I was expecting to-"

Kurt remembered his conversation with the venerable Abdullah Ababneh, about how he had first contacted the TOL front organization that still bore the TTI name. In the centuries since then, they had gone through a lot of trouble in order to appear more legit, of course. Kurt's mentor had to essentially offer the TTI folks a choice between letting him in and setting him up in an office, or having to deal with him preaching right outside their front door.

"Well, yeah. This is the Theology and Thaumaturgy Institute. We want all faiths represented here. The last guy was in breach of contract, so, here you are."

The contract text flowed on the small screen. As soon as the girl - Emily, by her nametag - mentioned breach of contract, a clause was highlighted blue.

"Says here I'm not allowed to disrupt staff or guests' undirected worship activities, and others are likewise not allowed to disrupt mine. Why would I ever do that?"

"That's what the guy before you did. There was a scheduling conflict on using the chapel, and long story short, he barged in and started shouting at a group of Haephestians. The algorithm determined that he was in the wrong for the scheduling conflict, so he got the boot."

"...Oh. That's... Well, I would say that worship is one thing, and idolatry is another, but I can see how that might be seen as rude."

"TTI in its current incarnation exists to promote interfaith dialogue. That can include shouting, heh, it can even include dueling if everybody's cool with it, but in the appropriate time and place."

Interfaith dialogue. That in itself boggled Kurt's mind. In the last century of the Millennium, The Other Light - whatever they called themselves - had gained enough influence to put entire territories under their boot. Osaze, which they called Misrayim, was one of them: much as it had happened in the first millennial century, God had punished brazen unbelief with a territory-wide drought. Nevertheless, they persisted, ripping life-giving water out of the sea and the air with powerful machines. Even so, the desert once again lapped the base of the great pyramids, some of the few structures still left from the ancient world. Instead of forcing the masses to worship their lord Lucifer, TOL had chosen to be devious, and resurrected the idea of the secular state: within less than a decade, various cults dedicated to a number of the false pagan gods had sprung up. Kurt had made a cursory study; most were simply an excuse to indulge in chaos and hedonism. A few, like that of Haephestus (syncretised with Ptah, Vulcan, Aulë, and other mythological smith deities) had even more adherents than the straight-up Luciferianism promoted by The Only Light. All this misplaced faith towards technological idols probably went some way towards explaining why, Kurt'd had to admit to himself, after the punishments of drought and the Ten Plagues redux, Osaze had embraced their land's loss of fertility and refactored itself into an industrial powerhouse. During his trip here, he had to concede that with the exception of Greater Jerusalem, made magnificent by centuries of love offerings, Osaze's prosperity was second to none.

"You do understand, of course, that my job here is to try and make a case for the light of Christ. And this includes trying to convert others, regardless of what they may believe."

"Yep. That's why you're here. So's every other religious lecturer we have, so, if you want some advice, listen to their pitch after they listen to yours. You'll get along well."

"Their pitch?"

Kurt signed the contract with a thumbprint and handed the smartphone back to Emily. "All right, you're all set! Your office is 42B. And yeah, if you try to convert them, people will try to convert you, that's only fair."

"That's... not going to happen."

"In the sense that you won't let them try or in the sense that they won't succeed?"

That was a good question, Kurt mused. Analyzing the situation, he figured that if heathen priests were preaching their false message at him one-on-one in conversation, they wouldn't be doing it to undecideds.

"They won't succeed."

"That's actually part of what we're studying. TTI's broader mission is trying to figure out the supernatural. And of all faiths in Misrayim, only Yahwism - Christianity, if you like - has a zero percent deconversion rate."

Kurt smiled. "Maybe it's because our God is real, and His Son is in the Temple every day, and you can see Him plain as day."

"Maybe. But, for a counterexample, I am a worshiper of the Omnissiah. The Machine God is real, too, we witness Its power every time we turn on a light switch or water comes out of the tap."

"Men did that. With their God-given brains."

"Actually, on the water taps around here specifically, men and women did that - specifically against Yahweh's wishes. I believe that God is not a starting point, but an end point, a goal for us all to reach. Actually, if you want more details, 43B is assigned to our sysadmin, and she's an ordained Techpriest. Just post your available hours on the door and, well, knock on hers I guess."

"Well, you're... half right, I will give you that. God, the real God, is the Alpha and Omega, not just one or the other."

Emily smiled. "Oh, don't tell me you believe in all those conspiracy theories, the Omega are just a cryptocurrency network, they don't - Oh, you mean the Bible verse. I'm sorry!"

"Is she a revenant? My, uh, neighbor I guess."

"Yeah. She got zapped during the Battlebots Revolt. Sad story, really. It left her a bit... uhm, excessively flirty. If it makes you uncomfortable, tell her and she'll back down, and if she doesn't, tell us at front desk. I haven't heard actual complaints, but, just in case. Oh, by the way, ask before using the R word."

Again, Kurt analyzed the situation. Revenants, people whose soul had gone to Hell after they died of unbelief at age 100 but whose brains and bodies were kept alive artificially, had been adjudicated by the Temple Tribunal to be equal to those who had willingly taken the Mark of the Beast during the Tribulation: irredeemably lost souls. It is permitted to man once to die, and then the judgement. It used to be that revenants were very visible, slack pale skin, aqueous eyes, and obvious mechanical life-support equipment, but in the decades following, technology had gotten to the point where it was impossible to tell a revenant from a living human, save for seeing them naked. Then again, others had almost completely artificial bodies. The Only Light used "MEC troopers" as enforcers and for heavy construction work. Kurt shuddered.

"I thought revenants had no feelings."

"Metabolically extended citizens have no sense of touch, pain, or pleasure. So they can't feel stuff. But they definitely do have feelings. Sam definitely does, anyway."

"You're romantically involved with a r- metabolically extended citizen?"

"Yeah, ze's pretty great. Well, ze's trying, you know? It's... a bit of a struggle sometimes, but I'm sure that if I show enough affection Sam's going to relearn how to return it eventually. For now... well, ze got the full package, just for me." Emily smiled and blushed. Kurt didn't flinch, Emily noted.

Kurt quickly figured out that Emily was likely trying to get a reaction from him, and just returned the smile, finding that he meant it. "You know, I don't really understand this, even we say 'till death do you part', but I can respect that you care about your significant other. Thank you for the warm welcome. Say, do you mind if we talk more in the future?"

"We better, it's part of your job description after all!"

Kurt left and glanced backwards, catching Emily in a sigh, then made his way up the elevator. Somebody had hung a paper bag full of cookies on his door, with "Welcome Mr. Williams!" written on it in uncertain calligraphy. He knew, having asked his Glorified ancestors, that Chloe and Cameron's taste for cookies had somehow turned into a giant joke in TOL circles; as far as he was concerned, the joke was on them - he actually liked the pastries, and it would not do to reject a welcoming gift. Besides, maybe it wasn't even a joke - it'd have gone stale after centuries, one hopes; maybe there were other Christians in this workspace. He walked in, took a moment to admire the impressive laptop computer, and noted, with some relief, that the TTI folks still used office phones like normal people.

* * *

 _Author's note: The chronicle of The Omega Legacy and of the last 100 years of the Millennium can be found by Googling **"Left Beyond Quest"** and clicking on the Archive link that should show up in first position. It is an interesting piece of fiction written cooperatively over the course of about a year. You can also use the redirect URL at _  
http：／／www．f3．to／omega／


	8. Tsion - Plans Within Plans

Tsion exchanged a few quiet words with the Levite priest, and was admitted to the Holy of Holies.

To all onlookers, he appeared to simply prostrate in silence, only glancing at his Lord for the briefest of moments.

Those who had been granted an audience with the ultimate Authority knew better: the conversation simply happened on a level that most of the time went far beyond voice and syllables. With one or two Words, or none at all, the Saviour could form a gestalt in a supplicant's mind, as vivid as any recent memory. And as a Glorified, Tsion had an excellent memory..

"I have just walked across Osaze, Lord." the theologian whispered "Many machines in Osaze. New machines. Better than those in Pacifica."

Of course, there wasn't much point in giving information to the omniscient, but clearly the Son of God wanted Tsion to feel at ease. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and the theologian felt a wave of peace wash over him.

 _Lord, I worry about the revenants. They have died of unbelief, and their souls are in Hell, yet they walk and talk. I worry about the computers called Omega, ordering our vulnerable children around by a simulacrum of money. I worry about the the Earth, it again teems with billions of people, and the end of the Millennium is so vastly different from the beginning._

Tsion was shown, as if from a helicopter, perfectly clear and yet with a gentle haze that he recognize as meaning that this was what would be rather than what was, an aerial view of the Ultimate Temple, surrounded by the Last Army, built by The Only Light for Satan over a millennium. Only a few scant decades to go, he thought. Then, he was suddenly able to discern details, the decorations and gear of every soldiers. God Himself was revealing everything to the theater of Tsion's mind.

Among the enormous throng of soldiers in fatigues were men and women wearing what Tsion at first thought to be Roman legionary armor. Looking closer, he could see that the helmet had heads-up displays, the lorica segmentata plating hid servomotors and advanced antiballistic protection, and the shields contained improved and ruggedized version of the sonic weapons he'd seen in action during the last revolt. On each helmet was the sign of an inverted omega, made to look like a pair of horns. That, of course, was the other half of Tsion's report to the Tribunal. Still in a whisper, he repeated it.

"The Omega Legacy faction is building a secret army!... using a technique unknown to us... a technique involving sound. The Omega are becoming more popular with the undecided..."

Again, the Son of God sent forth a wave of peace in Tsion's direction.

With the new discernment, the theologian was able to see that many of the soldiers were revenants. Each and every trooper, even those who were alive, sported the metabolic extension controller that combined with a helmet and grounding strap, would revive them in case of heart attack or electrocution. A soldier of The Only Light could be put to death by lightning, God dealing with them immediately as He did to Ananias and Sapphira of old, only to get right back up, soulless and incapable of feeling pain. The Roman-styled soldiers, the self-styled Legionaries of Light, sported a more thorough version which would keep the body functioning for hours even in case of major wounds. The Saviour spared him a detailed vision of those who had shed most of their flesh for composites and titanium, but Tsion knew that the principle was the same, only taken to its extreme consequences.

Tsion was given a different sort of discernment, and realized that the futuristic legionaries and the regular troopers eyed each other as rivals united by a common enemy, rather than as comrades.

"I see two great factions, The Only Light and The Omega Legacy..."

Tsion was again, in his mind's eye, whisked away. The scene was even more photorealistic, and perfectly in focus: Tsion was being shown the past. Specifically, he was being shown a minor scuffle that had happened in Australia between The Only Light and The Omega Legacy over the control of an underground installation. The smaller faction had won handily thanks to better weapons and tactics. Tsion was shown, in a sequence of flashes, snippets of life from many of The Only Light members who had died in the battle - they had been influencers, recruiters, leading fellow young men and women astray right up until their lives were cut short. They would face punishment, but their bodies and brains would not stand up to return to their evil efforts.

"Feuding... I see... You behind it. So, The Omega Legacy will rid You of The Only Light's worst?"

Another tiny nod from the Throne, another healing wave of peace and understanding washing over Tsion.

The scene in front of Tsion's inner eye changed again. It was, once more, the Last Army assembled around the Temple on the Last day, but this time, instead of photorealistic, it looked like an Impressionist painting. Tsion understood that he was being shown what might be, rather than what would be.

In a moment, all the enhanced soldiers were replaced by regular troopers, all the cybernetics disappearing as if they had never been invented. A blue flame, poisonous and purifying light coming from the very inner sanctum that Tsion was prostrated in front of his Saviour in, turned the Last Army into dust. Tsion saw the souls of the lost soldiers be herded to the final judgement.

Then, the scene reset. This time, the Legionaries of Light were back in position, those who already had been damned looking colorless in the Millennial sun's harsh light, as if the painter hadn't finished them. Once again, the blue flame incinerated the armies. Tsion again saw the souls of the lost soldiers be herded to the final judgement, noticing that there were less of them.

The scene reset again. Atop each revenant, floating in the air, was a regular soldier. They were whisked away to the side, and shown worldlessly talking to a group of missionaries, in ones or twos or fives. Many of them would let the stick that symbolized their gun drop to the floor, and themselves drop on their knees. When the blue flame came, they and the missionaries were whisked away to safety.

The Son of Man again nodded gently, this time with a smile, when comprehension dawned on Tsion's face. There would have to be a vast army at the Last Battle; so it was written, and so it would be. But each MEC trooper, damned already, would be there in the stead of a living soldier, who -unlike the revenants - up until the very last day had a choice to turn away and repent.

Of course, God had a Plan. Tsion slowly stood up, bowed again, and offered thanks to the One and His Son before humbly making his exit. The message was clear: some, maybe many, in the Last Army would be beyond reach just as those who in the Tribulation had taken the Mark of the Beast were beyond reach. This was, of course, so that Tsion and those like him could reach more of the others.

Tsion turned in early; his Glorified body needed little rest, but it was a habit he'd picked up at the end of his first life, age starting to catch up with him before he was martyred at the very end of the Tribulation. His new duty was to help coordinate the Millennium Force's efforts in light of the new information, to make it more efficient.

* * *

The Glorified do not often experience vivid dreams, but sometimes, they do.

In his dream, Tsion was again hovering above the Last Battle about to start. This time, the details were much fuzzier, the vision being the product of his own mind rather than Divine insight; but he could see that, him having taken control of the simulation, the army splayed around the Temple was once again different. This time, to go with Tsion's hypothesizing, legionaries were more numerous, and worked in concert with troopers in earnest rather than begrudgingly. Drones and airships like those that Tsion had seen in Osaze - Misrayim as The Other Light called it - filled the sky as the locusts had during the Fifth Trumpet, to the point where they blotted out the sun. The Last Battle would be fought in the shade.

It finally became obvious that God had released Satan, according to the Scriptures, when the warriors of the world, united, "whose number is as the sand of the sea," were finally in place, gathered for battle.

The millions-strong enemy created an euphony of rumbling and jangling as the sonic shields activated, sending dust billowing as far as the eye could see. And suddenly rising from within those masses and marching to the fore came Satan himself, as a shining light, a gleaming sword raised high.

"And now," he shouted, somehow able to be heard for miles, "I come to claim what has been rightfully mine since the dawn of time: the very throne of God!"

As Desolators and Heavy MECs advanced toward the temple, the noise of the endless troops drowned out the sounds of nature. Tsion was aware that his friends also stood tall beside him in the dream world, eager, anticipating, knowing the side of the righteous would prevail.

Despite all the attacks of the evil one throughout the aeons of time, his efforts were doomed to an ill end. In his dream, Tsion looked on with Rayford Steele and his compatriots — all of them sinners redeemed by the blood of the Lamb who sat on the throne — Jesus rose to face His challengers last time.

"Plan C, fallback N", said a head in a jar inside an armored vehicle, and in seconds the drones doubled back in a suicide charge, and cut an unsuspecting Satan to shreds with their blades.

Tsion kicked in his sleep. That was wrong.

The Alpha and Omega, the King of kings, the Lord of lords, the Lion of Judah, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace, the Rock, the Savior, the Christ stood in the courtyard of His temple.

The recording of a girl's voice, silenced for a thousand years, shouted, "There doesn't have to be a fight!"

Jesus responded quietly, "I AM WHO I AM."

Tsion heard distant thunder from the East. And with that, the clouds rolled back and the heavens opened, and orange and yellow and red mountains of white-hot, roiling flames burst forth. The Other Light's entire throng — men, women, weapons, everything — was vaporized in an instant, leaving around the holy mountain a ring of ash that soon wafted away in the breeze.

And then the long-range naval artillery that had been fired seconds before and flown hypersonically through the cleansing firestorm struck the Temple with algorithmic precision, bathing it and Tsion's vision in the blue flame of Cherenkov radiation, hotter than any other.

Tsion woke in a puddle of sweat. Surely that couldn't possibly...

Taking a deep breath, the celebrated theologian and master debater knelt on his bedside like a child might. Tsion prayed for forgiveness, for guidance, for assurance.

KNOW THAT I AM WITH YOU ALWAYS, YES, TO THE END OF THE WORLD.

Tsion's lips moved along with the Voice in his heart, and he felt most of his anxiety go away. He'd gotten enough rest, he figured, and it was early in the morning rather than late at night. Time to take a shower and then get to work. He knew that his nightmare's scenario couldn't happen, but he'd use it as motivation.

* * *

 _Author's note:_ _ _Can you spot all the references? This chapter is a response to a request by Child of Dreams._ The chronicle of The Omega Legacy and of the last 100 years of the Millennium can be found by Googling **"Left Beyond Quest"** and clicking on the Archive link that should show up in first position. It is an interesting piece of fiction written cooperatively over the course of about a year. You can also use the redirect URL at _  
http：／／www．f3．to／omega／


	9. Valentina & Kenneth - Ribbon Cutting

Valentina Kerman was going to go to Hell.

She had already turned down the offer of cybernetic enhancements, and after the last stunt by Dr. Kenneth Byrne - raising thousands of resource units in a week to build a cosmology annex to a museum dedicated to Creationist ideas, including that there would be no extraterrestrial life, AFTER the interstellar probe's report and as a response to it - any hope that any missionary might have in converting her might as well be stuck behind an event horizon. Like her comrades, she would go to Hell. The prospect did not scare her. She had faced hotter fires by now. All Hell needed was a launch ramp, and her people, the Cosmists of Baikonur, had been training for centuries to build one. In the last few decades, of course, their ambitions had become less mystical and more realistic...

Val took a deep breath and, against safety regs, turned off the suit's respirator. It was quiet enough that she could hear her own blood flow between heartbeats.

But it wasn't as quiet as it used to be. Even without atmosphere, the vibrations from the nearby construction site traveled through the ice canopy into her spiked boots. The edge-of-the-world peace of the ice canopy topside was an illusion, one that Val shattered for herself by turning around and looking at the launch complex once more. She let the respirator restart itself.

Val wasn't the sort of person who would pull rank often, but as she'd done a few times in the last week, countersigned her own worksheet after amending it with a long-range patrol instead of the supervisory work that she would ordinarily be assigned to.

There. Valentina stopped the raketasani hydrazine-powered ice skimmer, taking her time and swerving some to avoid wasting propellant on a braking burn. After months of private search, the slightest trace of a depression, and debris that she had confirmed to not be of meteoric origin or a crashed satellite. After nine centuries, micrometeorites and ultraviolet radiation had left little intact, but she could recognize an overturned camera tripod, a long-dead webcam on a frozen wood pedestal, and what she guessed was aluminum plating that had come off or was removed. The description fit.

Having confirmed that, she climbed off the small vehicle and took a few pictures with a Polaroid she bought from the gift shop at Johnson Space Museum. She would share them with family, but they'd not be published.

Then, Val crouched in front of the detritus and carefully, in slow and measured cursive, etched a message on the frozen wood with her soldering iron. The body below was, of course, long gone; the soul, maybe she would meet.

"Cendrillon Jospin, we the Cosmists remember you. Thank you for taking the risk of knowing. We know today that your hypothesis was correct." she whispered, and then left a standard ruggedized geocaching box memory card next to the cenotaph. It contained a pair of gold cosmonaut wings, an ancient photograph of this very location, and a memory card. Valentina took the astronaut wings out of the box, cut the ribbon they were on, and let them fall on top of the overturned camera tripod.

On the box's memory card were, among other things, Cordylon's announcement, barely a week old, that the FFR interstellar probe had located a simple but thriving ecosystem on one of the planets of Alpha Centauri B.

It also contained a thousand Cosmist voices that had been recorded in occasion of the most recent heavy-lift launch, the keel of the interstellar ship Reach.

 _"From the old world's demise,_

 _See an empire rise,_

 _From the Earth, reaching far_

 _Here we are!"_

Valentina Kerman, nee' Zuckermandel, sang those words to herself, saluted, and then turned around, taking in the view of the pristine ice canopy once more. The raketasani would take her back to the work site. She wanted to show the analog pictures to Jeb and Cordylon. Maybe they'd come back there with her, if there was time.

Silently, the raketasani sped back towards the canopy station, recovery gantry and greenhouses and barracks in grey-and-orange against the white-blue ice giving it the appearance of a military base built by a colorblind army. The enormous keel of the Reach was already being loaded onto the launch track.

* * *

The Creation Museum campus was magnificent: a ring-shaped building surrounded by a carefully tended lot of pine and cedar trees, encompsasing a pond in the middle of which sat a replica of Noah's Ark, the exterior of which had been designed with assistance from the patriarch himself. Director Kenneth Byrne had just finished inaugurating the newest solar system exhibit, the ribbon-cutting ceremony performed by himself and the Rector of MIT. Local notables had been rustled up for a ceremony, the opening prayer for it having just concluded.

The building section, formerly used for a pre-Flood-world exhibit that had been moved into the Ark replica itself, had been refurbished in record time following a fundraiser created as a reaction to The Outer Light's announcement about life having been detected in a nearby star system.

A reporter from a local broadcast TV station asked the two luminaries what people could expect from the attraction. Behind her camera view, a traditional banquet - steaming piles of vegetables, drenched in butter - was being prepared for the attendees.

Kenneth Byrne explained in a pleasant Atlantian accent.

"Visitors to the new exhibit will learn why there may be water on other planets, but there can't be intelligent beings because of the meaning of the gospel. You see, the Bible makes it clear that Adam's sin affected the whole universe. This means that any supposed aliens would also be affected by Adam's sin. But because the supposed beings are not Adam's descendants, they can't have salvation."

"One day, the whole universe will be judged by fire, and there will be a new heavens and a new earth. But God's Son, Jesus Christ, has stepped into history as the God-man, to be our relative, and to be the perfect sacrifice for sin—as the Savior of mankind."

"Jesus did not become the "God-Klingon" or the "God-Martian," as only descendants of Adam can be saved. God's Son remains the God-man as our Savior. To suggest that aliens could respond to the gospel is wrong."

"The gospel makes it clear that salvation through Christ is only for the Adamic race: human beings who are all descendants of Adam."

"Now, I'm not contradicting myself when I write the following, but I actually do believe in aliens! In fact, Christians were once "aliens." God's Word states,

So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God. (Ephesians 2:19)

Once people become Christians, they are no longer "aliens" or foreigners in this world—they are citizens of heaven!"

"The whole purpose of the Creation Museum is to present the truth of God's Word—and the gospel most of all—so that people will receive Jesus as their Savior and no longer be "aliens" but become a part of the family of God.""

The rector of the Massachussets Institute of Theology took over from there and began to explain technical details about the planetarium room and the various "planet jars" that showed simulated conditions on other planets, but was cut off.

"Thank you, Dr. Byrne, Dr. Whalum! And for the rebuttal, Jebediah Kerman, live from orbit with the latest telemetry from the interstellar probe. Jeb?"

"...Wait, there's a rebuttal?"

* * *

 _Author's note: The chronicle of The Omega Legacy and of the last 100 years of the Millennium can be found by Googling **"Left Beyond Quest"** and clicking on the Archive link that should show up in first position. It is an interesting piece of fiction written cooperatively over the course of about a year. You can also use the redirect URL at _  
http：／／www．f3．to／omega／


	10. Bahira & Chloe - Don't Go Gentle

_/CAMERON AND CHLOE/_ ** _BAHIRA AND ENOCH RESPOND - Children of the Tribulation's international blog!_**

This week's mail bag is a little shorter than usual! As you know, Cameron has put his reporter hat back on and is now in Eritrea, investigating what it wouldn't be amiss to call a TOL civil war. We are only a few years away from the end of the Millennium, and as it is written, the armies of Gog and Magog are reforming - with Chloe and her husband on their trail. So, I, Bahira Ababneh, will take a break from my usual blog and am going to be answering letters with my good friend Enoch Dumas, former chaplain of The Place during the Tribulation and now a guest with our senior ministry after a long missionary career.

Here at COT main campus, our prayers go towards the civilian refugees, and all those who have opened their homes to refugees from the Ethiopian and Western Russian territories, with a special thought for those undecided in Osaze who have shared their dwelling with Christian families from the east: may their willingness to open the door to our brothers and sister keep it open when redemption and repentance knocks.

Onto the letters!

 _"How long until the Millennium ends?"_  
 _"Surely the Last Day must be approaching... when do you think it will be?"_  
 _"My best friend is undecided. What can I tell him so that he understand that the hour is near?"_

I can't count the amount of questions like this that we've received. Understandably so; it's the ninetieth year of the ninth century, after all. Much as before the Rapture, only the Lord knows the day and hour - some think that the 1000 years are to be counted from te Rapture, others from the Desecration, and others from the Glorious Appearing. Even then, there is disagreement about whether or not to count the 75 days of preparation. If you have prayed sincerely, you will have found that the Lord is not telling us; we are assured that it will be a matter of years, but it could be one, or three, or seven. -Bahira

+993? +997? +999? +1000? We don't know... and I wouldn't recommend putting out a fleece. Does it matter, compared to eternity? -Enoch

 _"My father has severely injured his hand in a woodchipper accident. He won't make the trip to Osaze for a replacement, even though I took a second job to afford both trip and implant, he won't accept my gift. What can I tell him?"_

Contrary to a common misconception, the Temple Tribunal never said that using cybernetics or allografts is treif. I understand not wanting to support unbelievers economically, but you don't have to anymore! There's an orthotic center in Dallas that is quite competitive compared to made-in-Osaze prosthetics. -Bahira

Perhaps the Lord wishes to teach both of you a lesson in family unity as you assist your father in these last few years. -Enoch

 _"My daughter is very precocious, and has taken an interested in entomology. Recently she's all about fireflies. Is there any safe place where they can still be found?"_

For a long time, we thought that fireflies and other exclusively nocturnal animals that could not transition to continual daylight had gone extinct. But the Lord had a plan! Fireflies have been found again in the Eastern Europan territory, in the settlement known as Night City. I would of course never suggest to anyone that they take their young children there - the place's reputation is justified, and a reminder for us that sinners prefer the darkness. However, you can safely take your daughter to Carlsbad Caverns! The greater portion of the cavern complex is still intact, and the curators of the place have worked out a wildlife reintroduction deal. -Bahira

I admire your dedication to your daughter's love of learning and life, but remember, the fear of God is the beginning of knowledge. -Enoch

 _"I live in western Heartland, near the Pacifican border. Should me and my friends go to the Christian burger joint, or to the best burger joint?"_

With the introduction of vat-grown meat derived from soybean DNA, this has been a question that I've read a number of times in various shapes. It's true that the technology has been open sourced, but it's also undeniable that the early adopters in Pacifica have an advantage in culturing methods, supply chain, and most of the times, taste. If you or any of your friends aren't otherwise busy, why not help make the Christian burger joint the best burger joint? I can see a couple of ways to go about it (constructively, that is). -Bahira

God is ultimately the Author of all things. You are not in a position where you have to take what you can get when it comes to food, so... What would give Him greater glory? -Enoch

 _"What's the point in signing up for an apprenticeship? We've only got a few years left."_

I've got to admit that you have a point here, but... even "a few years" can be a long time to be idle in. Have you considered a short-term mission trip instead? The main mission fields of today - Osaze (be sure to say Misrayim if you go!), Pacifica, Nova Roma - are fascinating places to visit and may inspire you to take up a career while you do the Lord's work. Even in a few years, who knows what you might create or accomplish! -Bahira

Work well done can be its own reward; if you've only got ten minutes to do the right thing in, you should do the right thing for ten minutes. Redeem the time! -Enoch

 _"What happened to the Millennium Force? Are you still inducting applicants?"_

We're still here! It's been some time since our last big caper made the news - you may have seen the Bibleman episode inspired by it - but the simple truth is that Millennium Force detachments have been all over Eastern Africa providing aid and counsel to those being displaced by the TOL civil war. Our people are working with other relief organizations to make sure that as few civilians as possible are affected by the fighting! You haven't heard much about it simply because the work is still ongoing - but I have an inkling that Mr. Williams will have something to report about us soon. As you know, after my run-in with the entity calling itself Damien, I'm retired from field duty and have been helping Chloe run things here. We're definitely looking for all the help we can get in Russia and Ethiopia, so apply! -Bahira

They are still working to comfort the afflicted; there has been no need to afflict the comfortable, which is what tends to make the  
news. -Enoch

 _"I just found out that I am very distantly related to you (See attachment: ). I work with ISF. I was killed in a firefight while delivering desalinated water. I'd like to talk."_

Bahira removed the letter from the queue and saved the document without it, then checked the genealogy tree to see if it matched Chloe's - this was normally her column, but not much sense in wasting her time if it was some sort of prank - and found that it did match. She forwarded it, then thanked Enoch and wrapped up the blog post.

* * *

"Yuell Williams?" Chloe asked. The restaurant was only a half day's travel from the front, but it might as well have been on another planet: here the air was clear and the birds sang in the eternal sunlight. Small electric cars made their way in the cobblestone street alongsides pedestrian, bikes, and folks on horseback.

Answering the call was a tall, bald man with chapped lips and bright blue eyes, wearing a simple tunic even in the relatively cold climate of northern Europe. He was unnaturally pale, and under the tunic were visible stitching and tubing. He extended his remaining hand to Chloe, who did her best to shake left hands graciously. "That's me. I am your great-eighteen-grandson. It's good to see you."

Chloe sat down in front of the revenant, a quick glance telling her that the explosion had also taken his right leg - he had some sort of locally built peg leg to stand up with. He nodded gravely. "It doesn't hurt. It'll get fixed soon."

"What happened?"

"There are always jackals in war. Our convoy was attacked by raiders. They just wanted the desalinator to sell on the black market, everything else was expendable. The water tanker was hit two anti-tank lances, and the water only spilled out fast enough to protect some of me from the second explosion. Still have one of all vital organs. Can't say I died heroically, I was just in the wrong spot."

"I'm... I'm sorry. You were trying to do the right thing."

"Ingenieurs Sans Frontiers will cover repairs. Cybernetics or allografts, my choice. I remained because they needed first-hand info on the attack in order to put a trace on this raider gang. I rotate out tomorrow. How are you and Cameron?"

"He's still in Ethiopia, covering the conflict there. I'm here... well, trying to lend a hand, I hope, I already talked to your boss. Gog and Magog. Again. Bahira sent me your letter, so..."

"You are skilled in logistics. Your assistance will be precious."

Chloe noticed that the man was trying to not speak in a monotone, like one might when they are bored but don't want a friend to notice.

"I'm... going to do my best. Don't worry. It's going to be over soon and we're going to make sure that any idiots who want to have a war will do so without any more collateral damage. Uhm... Why did you want to see me? Is there anything special that you want to see done? If you had made any promises to anyone I'll be happy to fulfill them for you." Chloe's Glorified memory sent her back to the Tribulation, when she was running the Co-Op trying to make sure ever-dwindling resources would go where they were needed most. This conflict was much smaller in scale, of course, but she was very well aware of the web of promises and threats that relief workers often had to navigate in a war zone; she'd had to effectively build one herself from scratch, once.

"No. I wanted to talk to you because you and Cameron are the only extant relatives of mine who has experienced death. We are encouraged to do so as a way to help us cope. You were in the territory."

A body, mind and soul precariously held above Hell itself by gossamer strands of neurowire and synthetic muscle, Chloe thought. Not only that; an industrial process to do so en masse. And an ancillary industry of classes on how to cope, smart drugs to dull the sheer starkness of realizing that you are dead and walking, support groups... Chloe had picked up a Tree Of Light pamphlet. "Handbook for the Recently Deceased", it said, and came with a memory card containing a late-1980s dark comedy film. Naturally, a suggestion was to reach out to any relatives or friends who might have gone through the same ordeal. And so, Yuell Williams had followed instructions.

Lord, what can I tell this man? Chloe felt the presence of the grieving Lord with her and believed He gave her utterance. All she could do was present the unvarnished truth: that Yuell had seemed a wonderful person and had accomplished many good deeds. "But the sad fact is that either you never saw her personal need for a Savior, or you chose to ignore that need. You may think this is hardly the time and place for a message like this, but -"

Yuell looked on impassively; Chloe had not missed the simple fact that every time so far that he'd blinked, just before the facial movement a green LED had come on from one of the grafts under his tunic. She caught herself. Why a sermon? Sure, others - Chloe quickly scanned the restaurant and caught a half dozen young patrons surreptitiously looking on - might listen. But she wasn't here for them, not today, not right now.

"I have no enmity against Yahweh or Jesus. We could live in peace together, on Earth for billions of years, and in the Universe for trillions. I simply did not want to work for anything or anybody who would not want my input on how things are done. Unlike TOL or the Temple, ISF is run as a democracy."

Chloe found herself crying. It hadn't happened in a long time. Could Yuell cry? His eyes worked, that she could tell, but... could he really cry rather than just lubricate them? With some effort, she pushed aside the part of her mind that encouraged her to continue with her earlier train of thought, that other may be spared eternal punishment.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Chloe understood how, before the Rapture, atheist parents might have felt at a funeral. The thought that that was it, there was nothing else, they wouldn't see their child again. Yuell was right in front of her, most of him was anyway, but even so - the Last Battle would come in only a few short years, and there was nowhere to go for him than Hell. She knew this with finality. What to tell him?

"I want you to tell me about your death. It might help me cope with mine."

Were these revenants, these MEC soldiers, Satan's mockery of the Glorified? No, Chloe reminded herself instantly, Satan was bound and powerless. This was all humanity's determination, even in the face of hellfire. "Throw your soldiers into positions whence there is no escape, and they will prefer death to flight. If they will face death, there is nothing they may not achieve."

"Sun Tzu. The Art of War. Still relevant after thirty-five centuries."

Chloe hadn't meant to say that aloud... or had she? If they faced a fate worse than death, what could the soldiers achieve? "I was martyred for running a relief operation, albeit an illegal one... so you're right. Before my death, an Angel came to soothe and reassure me. I was guillotined - it only hurt for a few moments, and I remember falling free for a second, bodiless. After that..."

Yuell nodded. Chloe felt like she was talking to a tape recorder for a moment - that made it easier. She focused on the MEC's eyes, noting with some relief that they still displayed the slight wandering that human eyes perform naturally.

Chloe found it hard to describe in mere words the experience of meeting Jesus, receiving her crown of martyrdom and then depositing it at His feet. The Feast of the Bridegroom, Christ's marriage to the Church, came easier. She was able to describe the very portals of the house of God, a great, cathedral-like expanse where the redeemed of the ages were arrayed in purest white, comprising all those born again between Pentecost and the Rapture, marshaling expectantly in a staging area. "God Himself officiated the ceremony and welcomed all present to the marriage of the Lamb. As Jesus appeared, bright and shining as the sun, the Father intoned, 'Christ loved the church and gave Himself for her..." Chloe's eyes glazed over gently as she remembered the sheer contentment that suffused the few memories of Heaven she had, and the anticipation of an eternity of them. She caught herself when Yuell answered.

"I was dead for six seconds. I remember the pain associated with third-degree burns, only it would not stop after the nerve endings should have been incinerated. Then it stopped. I realized it was the metabolic extension controller kicking in. I did not experience being almost cut in half. The system flooded me with anesthetic, and I woke up in the field hospital. Standard procedure for milspec MEC operation."

"Why did you have a military metabolic extender?"

"ISF personnel operating in dangerous areas is issued a Mk10-A metabolic extension controller, if available. We would not be having this conversation otherwise. I don't think that your experience is relevant to mine, but thank you for indulging my curiosity. Will you tell me more about Heaven?"

Yuell blinked slowly, without the cybernetics having induced the reflex, and attempted a smile. It looked fake. Chloe could tell that it wasn't. Why was her relative - 18 generations removed, maybe, but still - torturing himself with stories of a happiness he would never get to experience?

Chloe took a bite of a cinnamon roll that was on the table when she came in, to give herself a moment to think, then figured it out and stopped mid-chew. Yuell was trying to feel something. Rage, envy, despair - it didn't even matter what. Something. Anything.

Chloe continued: "As Jesus stretched His arms to encompass the mighty throng that constituted His bride, God said, 'The Bridegroom loved you with an everlasting love, though you were unworthy and rebellious and disobedient. He redeemed you by leaving His home, only to be rejected by His own, and laying down His life for you. He returned here to prepare a place for you, that where He is, you may be also. And He left His Spirit to teach and protect you and to prepare you for-"

Yuell interrupted. "Being called unworthy at your own wedding is not okay. We - We have a shelter system in place for- for spousal abuse. All- all are welcome. Do- do you need help?"

Chloe noticed that Yuell's remaining hand had gripped the old-style pewter mug tight enough to warp it. His nose twitched. His eyes had narrowed, almost imperceptibly.

Yuell has no right to be angry at He who loves all of us unconditionally, Chloe immediately thought. She followed it up with, But he is angry. And he knows it.

"I... Thank you, Yuell. It's... not like that, and I know rescuers hear that sometimes, but I mean it. It was a long time ago, anyway. Thank you for caring." Chloe gave the MEC her most maternal of smiles.

Yuell's smile still looked forced. Thanks to her Glorified eye for detail, Chloe still reckoned that it wasn't. "Thank you, Chloe. My plans have changed."

"Oh? Can I know them?" Chloe finished her cinnamon roll and noticed with some relief that Yuell also had taken a bite of his. Could revenants still taste? Would they be able to tell flavors, but not care one way or the other?

"Old plan: Rotate home, undergo repairs, formally break up with Rosie due to my condition, return to duty. New plan: Return home, be healed, propose to Rosie, see if she wants a roadie."

"That's... That's brave of you. Rosie's a singer?"

"Real name, Brigitte Stark."

"Oh! She came to COT a couple years back! Of course I remember her, she did the Charity Churchmouse skit for the kids and was a guest in the adult choir!"

"Correct."

But she's a Christian, Chloe thought. Of course, she couldn't be one hundred percent sure, due to Mrs. Stark's young age, but she did see a couple of altar call answers after that choir performance. How would they make it work? In the territories with a Christian government, still the majority of Earth, Yuell was legally dead. Would they get married in Pacifica?

Yuell could read the perplexity on Chloe's face. "Even if she rejects me, I will have tried. There is much life to live. Thank you for reminding me of that, great-18-grandma."

The rest of the brief conversation was a blur. Chloe spent most of it trying, and failing, to figure out how incited anger had such a positive effect on this man. They said their goodbyes, and promised to write. They parted with a hug, and even though Chloe instinctively found the strange shapes she felt under the tunic, and the missing arm, unsettling, she genuinely treasured the moment.

* * *

The situation in the Urals region was improving - most of those who had not chosen to fight had been evacuated. It looked like The Only Light would after all gain control of Gog and Magog, but they would be doing so with remarkably little blood spilled. Despite her Glorified body, Chloe was tired; getting ISF and the Millennium Force to work together hadn't been easy, but it had improved the situation considerably. Time for her evening routine: check email, shower, evening prayers, sleep. Soon, maybe in a few days, she would be able to return to Greater Jerusalem and catch up with Cameron.

She was surprised to find a message from Yuell, consisting of a scan of an analog photo. Him, with a ridiculous spray tan and combover, looking like a grumpy tomcat behind a smiling Rosie, on the bow of a small sailboat. For modesty, or maybe to hide his stitchwork - the new arm and leg looked pretty natural, Chloe had to admit - the couple was dressed in what looked like 1920s swimwear. They were wearing wedding rings.

The other scan was a marquee for Rosie's new single, "A Love Passed On". The last tour date was on Tranquility Base.

The accompanying text from Yuell was brief. "A good roadie knows his whole job is to make someone else look good, keep someone else safe, help someone else do what they were put here to do. A good roadie stays out of the spotlight. Once in a while he might step on stage just to fix a problem, to set something right. But when he's done things right, people won't be sure he's done anything at all."

* * *

 _Author's note: The idea for the second part of this snippet came from autumnrose2010. The chronicle of The Omega Legacy and of the last 100 years of the Millennium can be found by Googling **"Left Beyond Quest"** and clicking on the Archive link that should show up in first position. It is an interesting piece of fiction written cooperatively over the course of about a year. You can also use the redirect URL at _  
http：／／www．f3．to／omega／


	11. Class G - Epilogue

**_EPILOGUE_**

"But I don't want to go to Bible class!"

"It's the last class you need for your civics credit, little bro. And there's one tomorrow. Next one is in a fourthnight. Come on, you can go to the beach with Aliasse after."

"But... we're both grounded!"

Gloria sighed. "It's okay, I already talked to her big person. It's short summer, everyone should get to enjoy it."

That cut down on most of the arguing. Avan gave his adoptive big sister a hearty squeeze and got back to lazily poking at his homework. He didn't mind Bible class so much, just... why did things always have to be rushed? The way he saw it, they had all the time in the universe.

* * *

Bible class was, for safety reasons, held outside the settlement's main dome, in an auxiliary greenhouse built a few hundred meters out: kids in the past and present would occasionally make it a game to see if they could cross between the two without air filters. Pursuant to the fact that this kept happening regardless of punishment, the base council had installed a small pressurized tent halfway through, ostensibly as restrooms.

The twenty or so children and young adults of Class G met at what had originally been a pressurized bunker on the edge of the reclaimed area. Nowadays, it was mostly used as a greenhouse of sorts; the air outside was safe for most plants and hybrid animals by now, but some cultivars still required filters just as humans did, and none of the old people wanted to give up familiar flavors such as raspberries and kiwis.

The slight loss in biomass after each of these classes, as the students walked next to the bushes and plucked the occasional berry, was a known factor and easily compensated by the waldo arms tending the facility.

The class itself was set up in a fallow corner of the greenhouse.

Built inside one of the structural columns of it was an armored glass box containing, in sterile oil and fed by nanovolt-precise power supplies, a small group of ancient desktop computers whose cases were welded together. The cluster was networked to a small box outside the oil vat, a piece of modern equipment that emulated untold thousands of those same ancient computers. A small plaque indicated that these were among the rare pieces of the original Omega architecture, now distributed across the various towns and bases that could guarantee a safe environment for them, and gave a pointer to the Omega's datalink entry.

The Omega introduced themselves politely, and gave the class a small list of greenhouse-related tasks that were most efficiently performed by a human rather than a computer-controlled servo arm.

Granted, it was a far cry from commanding armies of legionaries and drones, but the Omega had no ability to pine about their past. If they had, they would probably prefer a time in which their prime function to help Humanity thrive was easy to fulfill than not, anyway.

So, as it had for many short and long seasons, the boarding school's Bible class would be given by the old quasi-AI to students while they worked the soil. Through the usual trial and error procedure, this had been found to be optimal in most cases.

"The text you are about to be exposed to carries a significant memetic charge, more than any other, but must be understood without the aid of psi algoritms. Please remind yourselves of this fact as you go through the lecture cycle. There will be a MRI-assisted essay test at the end of the lecture cycle. We're going to start from the end, the Book of the Revelation, also known as Apokalipsi. What had long been thought to be a poetic or allegorical text was found to have a significantly more literal meaning a few years after the end of the Cold War..."

Avan quickly traded assignments with Aliasse - she'd rather assist the aging AI with flower arranging and, well, he'd rather be in a spot where it would be easy to get some raspberries - and listened to the Omega's measured voice match the events of the Tribulation and Millennium with a particular interpretation of Christian Scripture. The vocoder's low fidelity sounded a little funny. The agricultural work itelf was the mildly tedious sort that put one's mind at ease; Avan would rather have been napping, but didn't mind it. Every few minutes, the Omega's voice changed pitch to avoid getting tuned out.

"...consider then the following cybernetics problem: Over an infinite spam of time, how will a processing system Y whose throughput value is a constant infinity handle the emulation of a processing system O, that is in the process of executing an exponentially unbound main process replication operation? This will be a question on the test."

Huh? That was out of the blue. Did Avan space out again? A quick glance at the other students indicated that most were just as confused.

Leave it to Zeri to figure it out first. "You mean the White Throne Judgement that you explained earlier?"

"Correct. While we do not have sufficient data to arrive at a thorough conclusion, we surmise from the lack of further attempts at interfacing that from a computational standpoint the White Throne Judgement is currently and foreseeably in a state of minimum throughput scheduling."

"Does that mean people are still going to Hell if they perma-die and can't be taken to a vault?" Cosette asked, worried. Avan tensed a bit. He'd heard that story before, unofficially, and... well, tried to not think about it too much.

"Possible. Another possibility is that modern humans simply have no soul to harvest. As you should know from your first aid course, intercision and MEC installation is now a routine procedure performed shortly after birth. While we have perfected 4D-crystal vault technology two generations before yours, theologians still see it as a stopgap measure at best. It's a career path to consider. I recommend visiting the mind vault and paying your respects when you get home. This brings us to the topic of Age of Accountability. The previous society did not have adulthood exams; rather, responsibility to follow Divine law was imposed by chronological sorting..."

The lecture module went on. Aliasse only cared about the first sentence.

"But then we've got to breach through and - I mean, doesn't current strategic doctrine indicate that it would be most efficient to liberate Hell?" Avan tensed a little. Aliasse getting... intense... about something like this could cause a bit of a mess. He'd seen her take out a pack of nightstalkers while holding her breath.

"Also correct. We currently do not have the technology to reliably transfer baryonic matter to and from the afterlife, although work has been ongoing. It's a career path to consider. I recommend looking up the Inaros program when you get home. Now, let's get back to the topic survey. We've covered Age of Accountability, so, next topic. An Angel, standard Greek for 'messenger', is any category of semicorporeal entity responsible for..."

The semiretired Omega nodes went on for the best part of the day, imparting crucial knowledge to the students and answering questions to the best of their ability. Taking a nap on the non-hybrid grass was encouraged after the lesson; the test would come in a few days, to prevent the students from using cram-and-forget psi algorithms. Since the settlement could afford it, those with the appropriate MRI response would be given one encouragement to continue theological studies if so inclined.

"Bright night tonight. Want to hit the beach?"

"I can't, I'm still grounded."

"But.. Gloria said that Dr. Forster changed her mind."

Aliasse checked her terminal watch to find a message from her mentor telling her, in usual curt way, that she was no longer grounded.

Gloria must've talked to her - and the Omega, possibly - during the class.

"She has! Awesome!"

Aliasse stretched out her r-whip and gave Avan a gentle poke with it, by means of a tag. "Race you there!" The two students quickly donned air filters and ran off to the bus terminal, the first of the class to leave after having been dismissed.

* * *

Zeri and Juliana tarried. The greenhouse wasn't exactly a popular makeout spot, but they enjoyed the privacy and the intellectual stimulation that came from being able to poke the Omega - their cuddling sessions tended to intertwine with friendly arguments, and when they disagreed, it was a lot more interesting than looking things up in the datalinks. Unlike most of Class G, they'd been here before.

"So... the Bible was right; the meek did inherit the Earth."

"Correct, semantically."

"Hmm. I gotta wonder. What does that leave us?"

Juliana smiled and flicked a strand of pink hair in her companion's face. "Why Zeri, the universe, of course."

The Omega could see that these two didn't actually want much to do with the rest of the universe for the next little while, marked them as safe but unavailable on the tracking system, and entered sleep mode.

* * *

Proxima was high in the sky tonight, just out-of-sync with the twin suns of Alpha Centauri enough to be a bright point of light without marring the darkness of the night sky. The secluded beach in the reclaimed area would be full of people, Avan and Aliasse among them, enjoying the bioluminescence that the companion star brought out in the ichtyoids and native underwater flora.

Perhaps taking a cue from the native wildlife's increase in friskiness when Proxima was high in the sky, quite a few of the older people would be otherwise busy - technology would always be there to help when needed, as had been for millennia now, but most people felt that old-fashioned way of restoring Humanity's footprint in the universe was still the best. After all, when in Rome, drive too fast and ignore traffic signals.

The only residents of the new heaven and new earth were those written in the Lamb's Book of Life. And they would reign forever and ever. One star system away, spread out across two planets and an asteroid belt and sure that it was just a start towards inheriting the cosmos, the scions of Humanity were largely too busy to mind them.

Aliasse threw a beachball at Avan and beaned him right on the nose, daring him to chase her into the shallows. There would always be work to do - maybe there would have to be a fight after all - but not today, and not tonight, tonight was for play.

Gloria and Dr. Forster watched their charges get into a splash fight. "They grow up so fast, don't they?"

 _"The Earth is the cradle of Humanity, but a human cannot stay in the cradle forever." -Konstantin Tsiolkovsky, Datalinks_

* * *

 _Author's note: The chronicle of The Omega Legacy and of the last 100 years of the Millennium can be found by Googling **"Left Beyond Quest"** and clicking on the Archive link that should show up in first position. It is an interesting piece of fiction written cooperatively over the course of about a year. You can also use the redirect URL at _

http：／／www．f3．to／omega／


End file.
